Margie's Model to Motherhood
by OyHumbug
Summary: Marissa Cooper, an elementary school teacher, is new in town and looking to make a life for herself. Ryan Atwood, native of Chino, is trying to make sense of the life he was given. Too bad Margaret Margie Miller, town busybody, has plans for them.
1. Chapter 1

**Margie's Model to Motherhood**

Chapter One

"You better make it a cold one today," the exhausted, mind weary beauty announced as she slid into a barstool in front of the owner of the _Wired_ café/bar and her new friend. Folding her arms in front of her, she let her head drop dejectedly onto the mahogany countertop, releasing a long, pent up, much needed sigh of aggravation.

"What," the older woman teased her, laughing softly to herself, "no difficult to pronounce let alone spell, remember, or make coffee concoction today? Now I know you had a bad afternoon if you're already hitting the hard stuff."

"Bad doesn't even begin to describe the last several hours I've had to live through," the blonde grumbled under her breath. With a wrinkled brow, she looked up at the bartender across from her and watched as her confidant and advice giver worked diligently to make her drink. After a moment, the tall glass filled with icy cold goodness was placed in front of her, of course on a coaster to prevent a water ring on the cherished countertop, and the drink maker, one Margaret – "Margie" – Miller was waiting patiently, hands on hips and interest piqued, for her younger friend to share the story of her terrible day. She knew it wouldn't take long for it never did, and, after one quick sip of the beverage in front of her, the 24 year old, blue eyed, lonely woman looked up and shrugged her slender shoulders dejectedly. "It's just tough," she lamented, her eyes misting over with a fine sheen of unshed tears.

"Everything worth having or doing in life is," Margie assured her. "Do you regret it though?"

"No, I don't. It was something I had to do for me, but I just wish that my life hadn't gotten to this point where moving to a town where I know no one, where I have no friends or connections, where I don't fit in was necessary."

"Marissa, that's not true," the older woman argued. "You do have friends. You have me, my husband…."

"Rob only tolerates me because you tell him he has to." With a rueful laugh, she pushed. "Admit it, if you didn't threaten him with having to sleep on the couch, alone, he'd never put up with my constant presence around your house the past two months."

"Fine, I'll admit that the two of your aren't best friends, but he doesn't mind you coming around, hon. In fact, he's conceded the point that it's nice having someone younger around to keep him hip, to make sure that he dresses in a somewhat fashionable manner, and he says that you're a good influence on the kids."

"Aw," Marissa gushed, winking at her friend, "Rob's just a big, old softy who's wrapped around your little finger, isn't he?"

"Trust me, it's not my finger he's wrapped around, and you've made a bigger impression upon my family than you think. However," the wise woman veered the topic back on track, "I don't think the reason you're upset has anything to do with me, my husband, or my kids. What's really got you so down?"

"It's nothing, really," the blonde dismissed her own frustrations. "I'm just overreacting."

"Sweetie, I don't care if you're making a big deal out of nothing or not. You are upset, and I want to know why. Was someone giving you a hard time, because, if they were, I'll…"

"No, Margie, it was nothing like that," the younger of the two women reassured. "The day just started off on the wrong foot and got worse from there. I woke up this morning, late, because I forgot to set my alarm the night before, then I couldn't find any clean bras…"

"Oh, please," the short, brunette complained, "like it even matters if you wear a bra. Honey, you're so small, those things practically disappear in the wrong light."

Scowling, Marissa growled, "shut up, Margaret! Not all of us have had three kids, so extract those claws and let me finish." After taking a deep breath and another sip of her drink, she continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, things started off bad this morning. By the time I got out of the house and was on my way to work, I discovered a message on my phone from my mother…"

"What is it you call her again," the older woman interrupted. "I remember it being a rather flattering endearment."

"The Devil Incarnate," Marissa replied easily, "and she was calling not to see how I was or to check up on me but to demand that I 'give up this foolish, independent business and return home where I belong.' Those are her words, not mine. Of course, I deleted that message, but her words had me so upset that I wasn't watching where I was going, tripped, and ended up not only breaking my favorite pair of sandals but cutting up both of my knees. See," she pointed out, lifting one leg at a time to show the owner of the café/bar, "and you know that's going to be painful when I continue working on sanding the floors."

"I'll get you a pair of Sarah's volleyball kneepads," Margie offered. "They'll help, but, knowing you, there's more, so keep venting."

"Of course there's more," the younger woman lamented. "There always is when a day starts off on the wrong foot." Shaking her head slightly, she continued. "So, I get to the school only to find out that all three of my proposals were turned down. Not only will the kids have to share textbooks, because there aren't enough to go around my overly crowded class – imagine forty two students in one homeroom – but there's also not enough money in the budget this year for a field trip, and I can't repaint the classroom."

"The budget issues don't surprise me, hon; this is Chino after all. The school systems here are notorious for skimping on the educational funds and dumping all their resources into the athletics, but it is rather ridiculous that they wouldn't grant you a few gallons of paint to get rid of the purple walls."

"And it's not just any purple; it's like the color love child of Barney the dinosaur and one of Liberace's sequined suits. No child can really concentrate in a room like that."

"How much did you ask for to redecorate?"

"None," Marissa exploded, waving her hands erratically to emphasize her point. "All I requested was the permission to do it. I have the supplies, the time, and the energy to do the work myself. The room's small; I could have had it primed, painted, and completely dry in two days, completely ready for the first day of school. It's like they didn't even read my proposal, like they just saw the word change and immediately gave it their rejection."

"I know you don't want to hear this," Margie cautioned, "but it could have been rejected simply because YOU asked for it. Face it, Marissa, you're the new girl in town, and it's not like you're from Riverside or even Long Beach. You're Marissa Cooper, Newport Beach's prom queen, golden child, the girl every mother wants their soon-to-be lawyer, doctor, or corporate executive to marry. You're Mom runs one of the most influential and successful investment firms on the West Coast, your sister was the runner-up last year in the Miss California pageant, and your Dad is best friends and golfing buddies with just about every important man in Southern California. People see you here in Chino, and they instantly think this is a game to you, that you're making fun of our town and our lifestyle, that this is simply a distraction for you and you'll run back to Mommy and Daddy within the first year as soon as things get really tough."

"And if anyone would take five seconds to do a little bit of research," the younger woman snapped, "they'd realize that the public image of my family is just that, an image, an illusion, a ruse. My Mom only took over my Dad's business when I was in high school, because the town's good ol' boy, Jimmy Cooper, had decided to embezzle from his own company, my sister is a complete fake right down to her surgically enhanced bust line, drug induced waist size, and illegally paid for college degree, and my Dad is a shadow of his former self, my Mom's puppet that she controls to further her own career. As for me, anyone with half a brain and dial-up could go online and read the numerous articles pertaining to my very public, very scandalous feud with my Mother. They would see that I left home when I was eighteen, put myself through college, and have supported myself for the past six years, they would see that I left Harbor before I could be fired because the school did not agree with my stance on lowering tuition, on allowing students who show outstanding academic achievement from the surrounding, poorer communities to attend the school on a scholarship, or my proof that school officials were taking bribes of various means to pass students or let them off the hook when they were in trouble. The institution is a cesspool of illegal activities disguised under a good name, money, and society influence just like the town it is a part of."

"Honey, you know that, and I know that, but no one around here does, and no one else around here cares enough to take the five minutes it would require to look you up. So, until they learn to accept you, you're going to have to tough it out, smile through it, and continue coming in here for your root beer floats when you're having a bad day. As for the eggplant walls, there are no rules about hanging things on the walls, so we'll just have to cover every square inch of that square monstrosity with thought provoking, soothing posters. Somehow, we'll bring the field trip to the kids, and I'll help you take up a collection here to pay for extra textbooks."

"Thanks, Margie, you really don't have to help me, but I do appreciate it. But it's more than that though," Marissa confessed, letting a lone tear escape her wide, sapphire eyes. "Sylvia Plath died."

Stifling a laugh, Margie replied, "I know she died, a long time ago, because she killed herself."

"No, not the poet," the younger woman argued, "my pet goldfish."

Chuckling, the petite brunette commiserated, "they tend to do that. What was it this time though, suicide via the oven?"

Ignoring the joke, Marissa explained, "but I'd had her for seven years, and she was the best goldfish anyone could ask for, slightly moody like her namesake, but still pleasant enough."

"You had a goldfish for seven years," Margie asked incredulously. "Most of the time those things die within seven hours!"

"I won her at the kickoff carnival my senior year; she was my first pet, went with me to college, and now she's dead."

Sliding out from behind the bar, a banana milkshake in her hand, the older woman took a seat beside her young friend. "That's it," she announced, "there's to be no more wallowing, at least, not in my presence. Sure, you had a bad day; shit happens, but we're here, we're both healthy, you have a new job, your freedom from your family, and a new house to tell me about, and I just so happen to need your help picking out a new pool table. So, either put a smile on that gorgeous face of yours or I'm going to pinch your cheeks until the corners of your mouth lift on their own accord due to survival instincts, and then you're going to drink your float and relax. You've only been here for two months, darlin'. It'll get better, I promise."

"Hey there, Ryan," Margie greeted the young father who had just claimed a table in a dark corner of the café/bar. "What brings you by today, and who put that adorable grimace on your handsome face? I haven't seen you around here in a while, been busy?" When he refused to answer, she kept talking, hoping to elicit some form of a response from him. "Can I get you anything, on the house? It's been a slow afternoon, so I could bring you over something to eat or drink, and we could talk about whatever is upsetting you. It seems to be par for the course…seeing as how I spent the last hour and a half with Marissa."

"Who?"

"Oh, Marissa," the older woman pretended as if she had simply mentioned the blonde's name on a whim instead of on purpose, "she's just a friend of mine who also had a bad day. In fact, you just missed her. She would have been the pretty, young woman you passed when you were coming in. She's new in town, your age; I should introduce you to her sometime."

"I'm sure any friend of yours is a good person, Margie," Ryan replied, offering her a wan smile, "but the last thing she needs, if she's new here, is to meet me. At least save her from that headache."

"Aw, you're not that bad, kid," the petite brunette disagreed with him, playfully punching his shoulder. "Now, tell me what I can get you, hold out my chair for me when I come back, and tell me what's wrong. I'm not letting you go home in this kind of mood."

"Make it an iced tea," he requested. "You know me, always living dangerously."

"Coming right up, hon," the older woman agreed, patting him on the back before disappearing behind the bar. Two minutes later, she reappeared, an iced tea in one hand and a root beer float in another. "That friend of mine had one of these earlier," she referenced the drink in her hand, "and, while I was making yours, it sounded good to me. Besides, Marissa drinks them when she's having a bad day, and I've realized I'm having one, too."

"How so?"

"Well, it's come to my attention that I eat and drink most of my profits. Guess it's a good thing the café is really only a way for me to escape from home, to socialize. My real job has to pay not only for this place but also my real bills."

"Hard to believe you can make a living hacking, isn't it," Ryan teased her.

"It's not hacking," Margie defended. "I'm an online detective, privately employed. Besides," she countered, kicking him under the table, "we're not supposed to be talking about me; you're supposed to be unburdening your soul….or at least that chip on your shoulder."

"Really, it's not that big of a deal, and you'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"I see," the older woman sighed, leaning back in her chair and taking a large drink of her float. "Women problems."

"No, WOMAN problems," Ryan corrected her, "like always. Does it really ever change with me?"

Curious and wanting to help him, the brown haired, green eyed confidant asked, "what did Theresa do now?"

"It's more like what she didn't do." Scrubbing a work worn hand over his face, the younger man slumped into his chair and pushed the ice cubes in his tea around before explaining. "She called me today, the first phone call in over six months, interrupted me at work, and then hung up before we could even discuss what's really going on, what's really important."

"And what's that?"

"She left," he replied, his eyes void of any feeling. "It's been three years since she walked out of our home, and, to tell you the truth, I've realized it was a relief to me, but I'm not the only person she left behind all those years ago. She has responsibilities here, connections, people who matter to me and should matter to her, but she never, not even once, asked about them. I had to bring them up, and, when I did, you should have seen how quickly she hung up. There was no promises to call again soon, no word on how she's doing, no concern for anyone else but herself. Nothing."

"What did she call for then," Margie inquired. "I mean, I know there's nothing special about today, no one's birthday or anniversary. What made her call now for no reason?"

"She was looking for an old pair of shoes that she thought she might have left behind. Shoes," Ryan complained, pushing his drink aside, "of all things, shoes! She doesn't worry about the fact that she dumped me after seven years with no explanation, she never once apologized for leaving her family without so much as a letter or a phone call, and, worst of all, she never once even asked about Joaquin. What kind of woman does that?"

"A woman that doesn't deserve the good things life gives her, the kind of woman you don't belong with," the owner of the café/bar replied emphatically. "Like you said, hon, it's been three years since she's left, six months since she's called you, so don't let a few minutes of a phone conversation that really doesn't matter ruin your day. You have too many good things going for you. Now, drink up," she ordered, "and go home, so I can turn the place over to my night crew, find some take out that can easily be played off as homemade, and see my 40 going on 4 year old husband and three kids. Miss Theresa – 'I'm too good for a family or responsibilities' - Gutierrez is not going to mess with our evenings. Buck up, partner," Margie ordered, standing up from the table and ruffling her friend's hair. "Things are going to get better, I promise." Ryan never noticed the mischievous twinkle in her smiling eyes, a twinkle that would have immediately notified him that Margaret – "Margie" – Miller was up to something.

"Mommy's home," Marissa announced as she pushed through the back door which opened up into her still yet to be remodeled kitchen, her arms laden down with bags of sandpaper, stain, volleyball kneepads from Sarah, Margie's oldest daughter, tacos from the local Mexican takeout restaurant, and her mail. "Come on, E.E., Edgar, Emily, and Dr. Seuss," she called for her two long eared, light brown bunnies, one white, long haired, reclusive cat, and one flamboyant puppy, respectively. "It's dinner time!"

Twenty minutes later, the animals were fed, Marissa was fed, all four of her tacos, each one with enough hot sauce to supply a party of masochistic jalapeño crazed diners, consumed too quickly to be enjoyed, and her supplies were arranged and prepared for a night of hard, back breaking manual labor. Currently, she was working on refinishing the hardwood floors that spanned her entire new home, and there was nothing Marissa Cooper enjoyed more than remodeling.

It had all started her sophomore year of college when her Mother had made an unannounced visit to see her in college, disrupting the life she had made for herself at Arizona State University. In just one weekend, Julie managed to sleep with several frat boys, one of which Marissa had had a crush on, become fast but quickly forgotten friends with two of her sorority sisters, and drive her daughter to clean. When cleaning the entire sorority house from attic to basement had not resolved her aggression, Marissa had decided to tear up the old carpet in her bedroom and redo the floors with the help of Bob Vila and The Learning Channel, and, by the time she graduated, the entire seven bedroom, three bathroom, multiple story house had been remodeled and Marissa had a new hobby. The hobby had turned into a passion when she bought her first house after college, a small, two bedroom cottage outside of Newport, and then the hobby had turned into a business when she sold her first home for a nice, hefty profit, enough money to purchase a new home in a rundown community without taking out a loan so that she could repeat the process again.

No one understood her interest in house flipping. Her old friends in Newport, few that they were, had deemed the projects a waste of time. Why strip, paint, and shingle when you could shop, tan, and go to a spa? Her sister had complained about the mess, declaring the hobby a disaster for her manicure and hell on her hair. Jimmy, ever the man to sit back and let others take care of him, wondered why she would want to do all the work herself when it was so easily contracted out. 'Just let your Mother pay for it,' he had often told her, and, speaking of Julie, her disapproval had been the most unexpected and harshest to take. Instead of applauding her oldest daughter on a job well done and praising her ability to turn a profit, Julie had reprimanded her for taking such a financial risk, claiming real estate was not a business she was smart enough or ruthless enough to take on. That had been the final straw, and, after hearing her Mom's comments, Marissa had packed her bags, taken the job teaching at Chino Elementary School, and had moved her entire life away from her family, refusing to listen to any of their supposedly selfless advice or reprimands. Two months later, she was still the black sheep, the disrespectful, ungracious daughter, the heir gone awry, and it felt great.

With a pair of cutoff shorts and a paint splattered tank top on, hair tossed into a lumpy and crooked ponytail, her CD player droning on over and over again with a Spanish refresher audio book to help her recall the language she had barely passed freshman year of college, and her faithful dog at her side, Marissa worked on into the late evening hours, the time disappearing along with her cares as the years of paint and carpet glue were worked away by the diligent attention of her skilled and practiced hands.

"I offered you the position of Vice President, a job where you would have been able to work and learn at my side, and you turned me down for this: a rundown California bungalow, greasy take out, and manual labor? I know you're proud, Marissa, but don't you think you're taking it to the extreme here? It's time to grow up, to get rid of these childhood fantasies of independence and altruism; you live in the real world now, and, eventually, I'm not going to be here to clean up your messes any longer."

The unwanted and uninvited guest would not have had to talk to inform her daughter that she had arrived. The shoes, next season's Manolo Blahniks, the perfume, the unique scent created just for her as a Christmas gift from Calvin Klein, and the attitude, disdain laced with embarrassment, contempt, and disappointment, screamed Julie Cooper.

"Who asked you to clean up anything, Mother," the younger woman countered, standing up and smiling softly to herself as she noticed her dog sit and come to attention at her slightest movement. "And, for that matter, who said you were welcome here?"

"The door wasn't locked, which is an invitation for theft in this neighborhood if I ever saw one, and you weren't answering your phone, so I took it upon myself to drive down here and check in on you. It would have been nice if you would have returned my calls, especially after I left a message this morning."

"I've been busy," Marissa explained without even bothering to look at the older woman. Taking a large drink of water, she wiped the wet residue off the top of her lip with the back of her hand and moved to go back to work.

"Oh, I can tell," Julie patronized her, slowly walking her way around the dusty, mid-remodel dining room. "Obviously, wallowing in self pity and dirt is more important than respecting and honoring your family's wishes."

"There's no self pity involved here, Mother, and this is not about me trying to rebel or cause problems for you. I left home, because it was the right thing to do for me. You have Caitlyn to mold into your successor, your heir, and I think we all know how malleable and easy to control she is."

"And she's also a few crayons short of a full box, you know it and so do I; she's not fit to take over the business, and, despite our differences and varying opinions, I've always respected your intelligence."

"If that was true," Marissa argued, "you wouldn't try to manipulate or control me. You would realize that I would see through your deceptions and would thwart them." Tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, she approached the auburn haired woman and stood in front of her. "It's not that I'm ungrateful for the opportunity you want to give me, because I am, but I know that I wouldn't be happy living your life. I have my own dreams and ambitions, and, yeah, I might mess up once or twice while I'm trying to reach that pot of gold at the end of my own rainbow, but they'll be my mistakes, and I'll learn the lessons they have to offer, dust off my clothes, and get back up to try again."

"That's idealistic and foolish, so change your clothes, pack a few bags, and call the pound. I'll have one of my interns take care of this….investment," Julie ordered while glancing around the house. "Just be ready in fifteen minutes. I don't think I can stay here much longer than that without contacting some disease."

"I'm not leaving."

"Like hell you're not," her mother snapped, whipping off her designer sunglasses to glare at Marissa. "I didn't drive 45 minutes to simply waste a trip arguing with you. If you're determined to pave your own way in life, fine, but you're going to do that in Newport. People might not understand your determination, but they will respect your efforts for charity."

"Mom, this isn't charity," the blonde disagreed. "I happen to like teaching, I love children, and it's nice living in a place where people consider working hard to make your own way in the world instead of mooching off of your parents commendable. Like I've tried to tell you, my decision to live and work here has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I'm doing what I want not to hurt or embarrass you, but because I think this is what's right for me." Knowing her mother and the fact that her fear for the future of her company was the red head's more pressing concern, Marissa played her trump card. "Besides, you're Julie Cooper. I'm sure if anyone can figure out a way to ensure the business's prospects without having to rely upon either Caitlyn or myself to take it over someday, you can do it. All I ask is that you leave me alone and let me live my own life."

"This isn't over yet, young lady," Julie threatened, starting to make her way towards the front door. "Someday you're going to see how wrong you are and just how right I am, perhaps when you're ready to settle down and get married yourself. You'll want a fairytale wedding or a good life for your children, and, when that happens, you'll come groveling back to me. For your sake, I just hope I'm still as understanding as I am today."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Marissa reassured her mother. "After all, you definitely bring new meaning to the words compassion, tolerance, and empathy."

"Disrespect me now, but, someday, when you're a mother yourself, you'll realize just how lucky you were."

"I highly doubt it," the younger woman yelled to the retreating businesswoman's designer suit clad figure. However, she never made clear just what exactly she doubted.

"Alright, J, light's out. It's past your bedtime."

Settling down beside the eight year old boy, Ryan couldn't help but observe his son, his son who looked so much like the Mother that didn't want to know him or be in his life. The little boy was small for his age, short but athletic, with dark, almost black hair, naturally tanned skin, and eyes that were as clear and blue as the Pacific Ocean. They were the one thing he had inherited from his father. Although he looked like Theresa, he acted like his Dad, quiet, thoughtful, and always eager to learn and please. How someone could not love him, Ryan didn't know. To him, he was perfect.

"What are you reading," he asked his son, lying down on the twin sized bed beside Joaquin. "Is that a new book?"

"Yeah," the intelligent eight year old responded, closing the paperback and handing it to his Dad. "Sarah let me borrow it." Sarah was his babysitter during the summer months when the young teenager was off from school. "She said it was one of her favorites when she was a little girl, that Margie used to read it to her before she went to bed."

"A Wrinkle in Time, I've never read this one," Ryan said softly, his voice quiet to match that of his son's. "Do you like it so far?"

"It's okay," the little boy responded. "I'll let you know what I think of it when I finish it."

"So you'll give me your critique tomorrow afternoon when I get home from work?" Laughing, his son agreed. "So, tell me about your day. What did you do?"

"Sarah let me play on her laptop this morning while she washed dishes, and I found this new trail I thought we could try out some weekend."

"Sure," the father consented easily. "It's been too long since we took the dirt bikes up to the mountains. Maybe we could go during Labor Day weekend, make it an overnight trip. I should have three days off."

"Cool."

"What else did you do?"

"Not much," the eight year old shrugged. "I helped Robbie with his chores, showed him how he could mow patterns into the lawn."

"I bet Margie and Rob will love that," Ryan laughed. "What pattern did you show him?"

"Just a basic one," his son dismissed before continuing to talk. "Sarah took us on a picnic for lunch, and then we spent the rest of the afternoon swimming. What about you," Joaquin asked, curious. "Was it a busy day at work, was that why you were late picking me up?"

"It wasn't bad," the older of the two Atwood boys answered. "I had to watch them remove that 125 year old oak tree from the new green on the eighth hole. I wish our yard was big enough to bring it here. Trees that old and beautiful should not be torn down, no matter how attractive a redesign of a golf course is."

"So definitely a bad day," the dark haired child commiserated. "Anything else happen?"

"I got a phone call this afternoon….from her."

"Did she ask about me," the little boy's voice dropped to a whisper, and he broke eye contact with his Father. "Did she say when she's going to come and see me again?"

"Not really, buddy," Ryan answered apologetically. "She sounded busy though," he lied, "so I bet she was just running late and didn't have time to."

Sighing rather dejectedly, Joaquin slid down under the covers and turned away from his Dad. "She never does."

"Yeah, but it's her loss," the blonde declared, "and with school starting back up for you next week, you'll be just as busy if not busier than she is, so you'll be the one who won't be able to make the time." When his son didn't say anything, he pressed. "Are you excited to start the third grade?"

"Not really," the eight year old replied, tossing over to lie on his back, "but I am kind of nervous."

"Why, you'll be great. You're the smartest person I know, kid or adult."

Chuckling, the little boy rejected his Dad's comment. "You're kind of biased, don't you think?"

"Nah," Ryan waved off his son's concerns. "Besides, how many eight year olds do you know who understand the word biased? I know I sure as hell didn't when I was your age."

"I'm not nervous about my schoolwork; I'm nervous about meeting my teacher. No one knows her, not even her name. Alex told me today that her friend Billy heard from his cousin Adam that she just moved here from Hollywood, that she hates kids but had to take the job because she lost a toe in a modeling accident when she was temporarily blinded by the flashbulbs from all the photographers."

"That's quite the story," Ryan chuckled, standing up to tuck his son in. "I'm sure Adam was exaggerating when he told Billy that, and what did Margie tell you about listening to Alex's stories?"

"She said not to," Joaquin conceded with a smirk. "Alright, I get what you're saying, Dad. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what happens."

"And in the meantime, you can come to work with me tomorrow, you can help me plan out the new plants for the remodeled greens, and then we can have lunch anywhere you want."

"What about Sunday," the little boy asked, eager to spend time with his Father. "Can we do something fun together, because it is the last day of summer break?"

"Anything you want, J," anything at all." Switching the lamp off on the bedside table, the small room was suddenly washed in darkness, and Ryan made his way to the open doorway. "Goodnight, Joaquin. I love you."

"I love you, too, Dad."

Closing the door but leaving it cracked so he could hear his son call out in case he needed something, Ryan made his way down the hall towards his own room, a slight smile lighting up his ruggedly handsome features. Margie had been right; in the grand scheme of things, Theresa leaving them really didn't matter. He had a wonderful eight year old little boy, a good life, and a promising future. Sure, in an ideal world, Joaquin would have a Mother and a Father, but one parent had been more than he had had growing up, and Ryan would do everything in his power to make sure that his son was happy. So far, so good.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"_Alright, there's only one category remaining. Remember, with each clue you will be provided with three movies, and then you'll be expected to name the actress that stared in all three of films. Bob, you have control of the board. Make your selection."_

"_I'll take 'Three Movies and a Lady' for $400, Alex."_

"_Bridges of Madison County, Marvin's Room, __Sophie's Choice."_

"Meryl Streep," Ryan called out, making his son furrow his eyebrows in frustration.

"How did you know that, Dad?"

Chuckling, the older man answered, "Your Mom duped me into watching that movie back when we were teenagers, because she told me it was a Clint Eastwood movie. She wasn't lying," he explained, "but she forgot to mention it was a romance. Talk about the two longest hours of my life."

"_Go ahead, Tammie," Alex Trebek instructed. "Which clue would you like to see?"_

"_The next in line, please," the contestant asked. "Let's go for the $800 clue."_

"_The Birds, Driving Miss Daisy, __Fried Green Tomatoes."_

"Ew," Joaquin exclaimed, "people eat green tomatoes? Why would you do that? They're not ripe!"

"It's not like that. They're supposed to be green. It's another breed of tomatoes."

"Well, you better never make them for dinner," the little boy dictated, his face set in stony seriousness. Turning back to the TV to hear the correct answer, he pouted. "This category sucks."

"_For $1200: __The Evening Star, Natural Born Killers, __What's Eating Gilbert Grape?."_

"Oh, I know this one," the younger Atwood boy called out, jumping out of his seat at the kitchen table and almost upsetting his glass of orange juice. "It's Lewis," he called out, "Juliette Lewis."

"How do you know that?"

"Margie's daughter, Sarah, is obsessed with Johnny Depp, and, when it rains, she always makes us watch his movies. I really don't like that one, but, when I get bored, I'll read the movie case and memorize the credits."

"Only you, J, only you," Ryan teased his son before the two of them let their attention drift back to the TV."

"_Which one will it be, Tammie, the $1600 or the $2000 clue? You've pretty much controlled this category so far. Let's see if you can continue your recent run."_

"_I'll take 'Three Movies and a Lady' for $1600 please, Alex."_

"_Alright, and here is your answer. "__Jane Eyre, Rebecca, __The Women."_

"Do you know this one, bud?"

"No," Joaquin answered. "Why would I?"

"Well, two of those movies are based upon novels of the same name. I thought you might have seen them in the library and recognized them."

"Dad, do you know how many books are in the library? How could I possibly know all of them? Besides, those sound like girly books."

"You're probably right, kiddo," the older of the two boys agreed, laughing.

"_Oh, I'm sorry," Alex fairly taunted the contestant who got the question wrong. "What is Joan Fontaine. And here is our last clue. __Ed Wood, L.A. Story, __Mars Attacks!."_

"And there is the nail in your coffin, kid," Ryan teased his son. "Sarah Jessica Parker, and that, my boy, puts me too far ahead of you. There's no way you can catch me in Final Jeopardy."

"How did you know that?"

"Let's just say that there was a time when your Dad found Carrie Bradshaw to be very….entertaining."

Puzzled, Joaquin queried, "and who's Carrie Bradshaw?"

"She's someone I'll introduce you to when you're a little bit older," Ryan promised his son. "She'll prove to be very helpful to you when you start dating, lots of good advice."

Shrugging his shoulders, the younger boy accepted his father's response. "Okay, but I still want to watch Final Jeopardy even if I can't win."

"_Our Final Jeopardy category," Alex Trebek's voice broke through the Atwood kitchen, "is Presidential Nicknames. Players, make your wagers."_

"Sure, that shouldn't be a problem. We still have 35 minutes until you have to be at school."

"Well, actually," Joaquin hedged, averting his eyes from his father's piercing gaze. "That's not exactly true."

Voice harsh, Ryan asked, "what do you mean, J?"

"Didn't you see the letter the school board sent out last month, the one that let all the parents know that school was going to start at 8:15 this year instead of 8:30?"

Frustrated, the older man replied, "No, I did not see that letter."

"You had to of," Joaquin argued. "I remember getting it. Margie and I walked to the post office that afternoon on her lunch break. I stayed with her in town instead of going out to her house, because she was teaching me how to play this new computer game, and, when we both got the same looking envelope, I opened ours, read it to her while we walked back to the café, and then we made peanut butter, banana, and raison sandwiches."

"The problem is that you don't remember bringing the letter home or giving it to me to read. Go," Ryan directed his son, "we have fifteen minutes to get you to school on time, and I refuse to let you be late on your first day. Brush your teeth; I'll figure out something for you to eat for breakfast on the way." When the little boy went to protest, pointing towards the television, the older man interrupted his silent protests. "No, you're not finishing Jeopardy. Consider it your punishment. Now run. My truck is pulling out of this driveway in five minutes. If you're not out there and ready by then, there will be no TV, no books, and no trips to see Margie for a week."

Sighing, he listened as the little boy scurried out of the room, his voice carrying back as he called for his Dad to grab his book bag out off his bed. Flipping the television off, Ryan scrounged through the cupboards until he found a box of Poptarts, grabbed a package, a juice box, and a cup of coffee for himself before retreating to his truck just as he told his son. They would have to Tivo the morning episode of Jeopardy and watch it together at night, because, with fifteen minutes less in the mornings to get ready, his reluctant to rise son would never be ready on time if they stuck with their routine from years passed. It was a subtle change to their lives, but, for some reason, it made him wonder if it was just a precursor for bigger, more important changes that were looming in the future. There was only one way to find out though, and he had never shied away from confronting anything in his life, even the unknown.

"Now, after you get out of school, I want you to walk to Margie's and wait there for me to pick you up after I get off of work. I talked to her last night," Ryan explained to his son, "and she said you could go there every day after school this year, if you want, instead of riding the bus out to her house. This way you're closer to the golf course, and it won't take us as long to get home at night."

"But what about my homework," the little boy asked, wanting to work out the details just like his father always did.

"She said that you can either sit up front with her while she waits on customers to do your homework, or, if it's too distracting for you, her back office will be semi-clean and ready for your use."

"Semi-clean in Margie speak means there will be a path from the doorway to her desk," Joaquin grumbled. "I think I'll stick to sitting out front."

"That's probably safer," the older man laughed, knowing well his friend's penchant for clutter and chaos. Pulling up outside of the school, he unlocked the doors and turned to his son. "Have a good day, kiddo," he encouraged, ruffling his free hand through the little boy's hair, "and remember to ignore those rumors Alex told you about your teacher. I'm sure she's going to be really nice, and, no matter what, she'll definitely be impressed with your summer reading list."

"Thanks, Dad," J chuckled, hopping out of the truck and situating his backpack on his shoulder. Pulling his Poptart out of his pocket, he went to close the door, yelling, "see you tonight. Have a good day at work." And, with that, Ryan watched as his only child ambled lazily into the Chino Elementary School's courtyard, completely oblivious to time and his surroundings. Instead, his attention was on his breakfast, and he only hoped his son remembered to wipe his face off; otherwise, he'd pick him up from Margie's that afternoon with breakfast pastry still smeared along the corners of his mouth, just one of many things that served to remind him that his gifted eight year old was still the little boy he pretended not to be.

This was not how Marissa Cooper had envisioned her first day of school. While she had planned her outfit the night before, she pictured herself waiting in her classroom for her students to arrive, looking fresh, poised, and collected, exuding a sense of confidence and warmth to her students; instead, she was running late after accidentally sleeping in, she was anything but organized and prepared, and she was trying to balance her tote bag, her lunch box, her purse, and a duffel bag with a change of clothes in it so she could go to Margie's after school and not have to worry about ruining another work outfit while, at the same time, attempting to eat her breakfast and put up her long, unruly, blonde hair. To say that she having a difficult time balancing everything did not quite capture the awkward ineptness she was, at the moment, displaying.

"Do you need some help," a rather short student beside her asked. To see him, she had to look down for he was walking beside her. "I could help you carry your stuff inside," he offered.

"Wouldyou," her words ran together and became mumbled, making her hard to understand. Of course, attempting to talk while holding a Poptart in your mouth tended to that. As the little boy took her purse and lunch box out of her right hand, she pulled her quick breakfast out of her mouth and smiled down at him. "Thank you. If you wouldn't have come along when you did, I probably would have ended up falling down flat on my face. Then I really would have been late. My name's Marissa Cooper, by the way" she introduced herself, holding out the hand with the breakfast pastry before pulling it back away from the little boy, putting the food back in her back, and then reoffering him her hand.

"Hi, Miss Cooper. I'm Joaquin Atwood, but you can call me J." Releasing her hand, he motioned towards her Poptart. "I wish my Dad let me have the S'mores ones. He says they're not nutritious enough for the most important meal of the day."

"Yeah, I saw you were eating one that didn't have any frosting," she motioned towards the child's own Poptart. "It looks fruity, too. I'm not too big into fruit."

"You're lucky your Dad doesn't tell you what to eat then anymore."

"Well, when I think about it," Marissa realized, cocking her head to the side and stopping in her tracks. Joaquin slowed to a stop beside her. "He never really did care about what I ate. He was always busy in the morning, reading his papers, and we always had to do whatever my Mom told us to. He let rule the roost. So, growing up, my breakfasts consisted mainly of protein bars and shakes, energy drinks, and a whole bevy of vitamins. We only had good meals when my Mom wanted to impress someone."

"I've never had any of that stuff," Joaquin commented, "but it sounds disgusting."

"Oh, it is," she agreed with him. "But, anyway, the point of my rambling is to tell you that fruity Poptarts without frosting aren't that bad. After all, it could be worse; you could be forced to have a Julie Cooper breakfast."

They fell silent for a moment as they walked down the halls towards the classrooms, J lost in thought about what his new, older acquaintance had told him and Marissa concentrating on finishing her foil wrapped pastry. "Miss Cooper," he broke through the quiet, "may I ask you something?"

"Just because you said may I instead of can I, you can ask me anything," she agreed.

"What's that tattoo on the back of your neck supposed to be? It just kind of looks like a blob of paint."

"What," she asked, twisting around aimlessly for there was no way she'd be able to see the mark he was talking about. "I don't have any tattoos. What color is it?"

"It's red," he replied.

Stomping her foot impetuously, Marissa grumbled in frustration. "Shoot," she yelled, oblivious to the otherwise soft voices permeating from the various classrooms they were passing. "I was up late last night painting my bedroom. You see," she explained, "I just bought a new house, and I'm remodeling. Apparently, I haven't mastered the art of taking a shower yet, because I didn't get all the paint off of myself. I do hold out hope that I'll learn how to someday though." Taking her hair down to cover the spot, she asked, "how bad is it; can you still see it?"

"A little bit," Joaquin answered honestly, "but, like me, most of your students will probably be short. Just make sure that you don't turn around much when you're teaching."

"How did you know that I was a teacher?"

"Well, you're not a student," the little boy said, gesturing to the adult standing beside him, "you don't look mean enough to be a principle, and you're not old enough to be a secretary. They only hire old ladies here to be secretaries. My friend, Margie, says that it's reverse age discrimination."

"You might have a case," Marissa nodded her head while she debated the merits of his point. "However, I think that discussion will have to be shelved until we meet again running late one morning. I'm sure it'll be a common occurrence for me. What about you, J?"

"My Dad doesn't like to be late," he replied. "He says it's unprofessional and gives the boss a bad impression. This morning it was my fault we were running behind. I forgot to tell him I was supposed to be here by 8:15."

"Your Dad sounds like a very smart, very responsible guy. I'm just glad that I don't work for him," she teased, winking at the little boy standing beside her and making him laugh. "However, J, this is my stop. Thank you for your help," she said sincerely, retaking her bags from him, "but it was your company that I appreciated the most. Talking to you helped to alleviate my first day jitters. I guess I'll see you around." Marissa went to walk away, thinking that the child would continue on his way towards his own classroom, but, when she could sense him still standing behind her, she stopped and turned back around. "Is something wrong, Joaquin?"

"You….this is your classroom," he asked her, his eyes wide with surprise. "You teach third grade?"

"Yes, I do," she answered slowly, unsure of what was wrong. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he smiled up at her, his grin growing wider with every passing second. "It's not a problem at all. "In fact, it's a great thing. I'm in your class," he told her. "You're my teacher, and now, after talking to you, I don't feel so nervous anymore either."

Nodding for him to follow her into the classroom, Marissa leaned down to whisper in his ear. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, J. You and me," she motioned between them, "I think we're going to be good friends."

Suddenly the next year at Chino Elementary School wasn't looking as scary for either of the Poptart eating, absentminded, blue eyed, newly arrived members of classroom 131.

"Hey Margie," Joaquin called out as he ran into his surrogate aunt's café, waving goodbye to the other students he had walked from school with and ignoring the amused looks the few patrons cast in his direction.

"Your snack's in the back; look in the fridge," the busy owner directed her young friend. "Go ahead and grab it and then sit at the bar, and I'll join you as soon as I check with all the customers and refill their drinks."

Five minutes later, legs swinging from the barstool he was sitting on, J had a wide, chocolate stained smile plastered across his tan face. Margie had prepared him one of his favorite desserts for his after school snack: dirt pie, and she had even gone out and bought him his favorite kind of apple juice. Between meeting and liking his new teacher, getting his new books, and going to Margie's after school, the day had been a memorable first day of school for Joaquin, and, with plans to start a new book as soon as he finished his snack, he knew he and his Dad would have many things to talk about over dinner.

"My children are not going to be very happy with me if I get all the first day gossip from you," Margie announced as she slid onto the seat next to him, "but I'm impatient, and I want to hear how your first day of third grade went, kiddo."

"It was good," the little boy shrugged his shoulders, more interested in eating his snack than in talking.

"Oh no, I don't think so, Atwood," the café owner chastised him. "I cooked for you, and, in lieu of payment, we're going to sit here and we're going to talk like two little old biddies with nothing else better to do. Now, start with what song went off when your alarm woke you up this morning."

"You're a dork, Margie. You know my Dad wakes me up."

"Alright, alright," she relented, playfully nudging his shoulder. "I guess the abbreviated version would be alright."

"Dad beat me at Jeopardy this morning, but you'll have to tell Sarah that there was a question about What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, and I got it right."

"She'll be quite impressed," Margie quipped, smiling at the eight year old sitting beside her. "And although your Dad deserves his congratulations for winning the game this morning, that really doesn't have anything to do with your first day of school. Are your friends in your class? How's your teacher. Don't tell me you got that wart prone bag of bones Alex had last year. I swear, she's going to die teaching third grade at that school, and, when it happens, the janitors will just step right over her, believing she's just taking a nap."

"Nope, I got lucky," Joaquin answered, "and, hopefully, I'll never even see old Mrs. Conners. My teacher is really nice. We walked inside together this morning, and I got to talk to her before I even knew that she was my teacher."

"And…what did you think? Is she cool enough to be your teacher?"

"She's really cool," he responded, putting his spoon down and turning to face his older friend. "You know how some adults talk to kids like they don't matter?" Margie shook her head yes to signify that she understood what he was talking about. "Well, she doesn't do that. We talked about our families, she told me a little bit about herself, and she likes Poptarts."

"Well, that's a very important quality in a person."

"And not just any kind of Poptarts but S'mores." Falling silent for a moment, Joaquin thought to himself before continuing. "She actually reminds me a little of you, except she's younger, taller, and has blonde hair instead of brown, like yours."

"Wait a minute," Margie realized, smirking at the eight year old across from her. "What's your teacher's name?"

"Miss Cooper," J yelled, jumping down from his barstool and running across the café. Quietly while still sitting, Margie watched as the little boy greeted the newest arrival, and, apparently, Marissa was a friend to both of them. Although she couldn't hear what they were saying, she could tell they were both happy to see each other.

"Well, hello there, stranger," the blonde greeted the older woman as she came to stand beside her. "Long time, no see."

"Don't let her fool you. She was here last night for dinner," the brunette told the child standing with her younger friend. Turning back to the other woman, she said, "J and I were just talking about his first day of school. There's some extra dirt pie in the back left over from his snack. If you want some, it's yours. I know how wicked your sweet tooth can be."

"That sounds delicious. I'll grab some on my way back from changing." Swinging her duffel bag onto her shoulder, Marissa pointed towards the back of the establishment. "Is your office open so I can use it to get dressed?"

"Help yourself," Margie directed her, "but make sure you put the blinds down. Old Man Morris next door has been known to be a peeping Tom. There's no need to give him a heart attack. He's a good customer."

"Aren't we a regular Florence Nightingale," the blonde teased her older friend. "You two play nice. I'll be right back."

Once she left, Margie motioned for Joaquin to retake his seat beside her. "So, kid, I see you finally met my friend Marissa…not that you can call her that, at least not in school. It's good to see two of my favorite people in the whole world get along so well though."

"Do you know that she loves to read poetry," the little boy asked her. "We talked again during recess duty, because I saw her reading and I wanted to know what it was. I've never read much poetry before, but, the next time Dad and I go to the library, I'm going to check some out."

"The next time the two of you get to talk," the café owner suggested, "why don't you ask her about her pets. She loves to talk about them."

"How many does she have?"

"Hey, that's not my story to tell," Margie protested, standing up and moving behind the bar to get herself a glass of water. "Just ask her though. She'll tell you all about them."

Nodding his head in agreement, Joaquin turned towards his backpack and pulled out a book. Instead of opening it though, he merely rested his hands against it, leaning his chin down upon his hands in thought. Needing to voice his ideas, he finally broke the quiet which had descended upon them and asked his older friend a question that had been plaguing his mind. "Did you know that Marissa and my Dad are the same age?"

"I did." When the little boy didn't continue, the brunette pushed. "Is there any particular reason that interests you or did you just think it was a cool coincidence, J?"

"It's just….they're so different," he finally blurted out after stumbling over his words. "Marissa's so happy, always smiling, and, though Dad's happy with me, he doesn't laugh like she does, especially after my Mom does something stupid like calling and upsetting him."

"Your Dad just needs to get out more. Sure, you're not only his son but his best friend, too, but a guy needs more than just two close people in his life." Pausing for a moment, Margie thought about what she should say next. "You know what I think your Dad needs, kiddo; I think your Dad needs to start dating again, and I just so happen to know a lot of really nice, really pretty, single woman. Leave it to me, J. We'll have your Dad smiling and laughing in no time. I'm going to set him up." With a determined smile, the older woman tossed her dish towel aside when a new customer entered into the café and went to offer them a menu. "I'll be right back. Let Marissa know she can make herself a drink if she wants one."

Five minutes later, the eight year old's nose was buried in his book, and he never heard his new teacher and friend come back into the main room. "Whatcha reading there, kid," she asked, sitting down beside him. Leaning over, she read the spine of the book. "Joaquin, why are you already reading that book? I haven't even started the lesson plans for it yet. I just handed them out today to help fill up the time during the first day."

"I've always wanted to read it," he offered as an excuse. "Besides, my Dad won't be here for a little while longer, and Margie's busy. Why not read?"

"Because every time I turned around today, your head was bent over one book or another. It's time to give those baby blues of yours a rest. Now, put that book back in your book bag, hop off that stool, and come with me. Have you ever played pool before?"

"Miss Cooper," he laughed, "I'm only eight."

"First of all," she chastised him, "when we're not in school, you can call me Marissa. Miss Cooper makes me feel old or, even worse, like my Mom. As for your age, if you're eight, you're already years behind," she teased the little boy. "If we're going to turn you into someone I can compete against in this town and perhaps have at my side to help hustle unsuspecting fools, our lessons need to begin tonight. Now, pick up your cue stick. The first thing I'm going to show you is how to hold it properly."

From across the room, Margie watched as her friend spent quality time with Joaquin, a child she had felt a special connection to for years. It was refreshing to see, especially since there was no maternal influence in the little boy's life. Determined even more to set Ryan up on a date, she quickly dashed into he back room to grab her address book. As Marissa and J continued their first pool lesson, she started to make her way through the various women she could set his Father up with on a date. Midway through her list, a car horn sounded, alerting the eight year old to the fact that his Dad was outside waiting for him to go home. The intelligent child grabbed his backpack and said two quick goodbyes to his older, female friends before running out the door and jumping excitedly into the truck so he could tell his Dad all about his first day of school. Then Marissa called it an early night, determined to go home and work, once again, on her ever expanding list of home remodeling projects she wanted to tackle for her new house. Slowly, the customers dwindled away, night fell, and Margie was left with an empty café, dinner to take home to her family, and the name of the date she was going to set Ryan up with. Now all she had to do, she realized, was convince the said bachelor to enter the dating scene again, and she realized that would be easier said than done.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Although Marissa loved being a teacher, she could not deny the fact that she was thrilled it was Friday. There was something about the first week of school that exhausted her. Yes, it was exhilarating, meeting her new students, adjusting to the job again after having three months off, and personalizing the classroom she was assigned and making it her own, but it was also exhausting, and she was looking forward to a weekend of relaxing. To do so, she had a long list of chores to complete around the house: tearing off the old deck in the back of the house and replacing it with a tiled patio, mowing her lawn which would take her a while not because it was overly large but because she was meticulous with every detail, stenciling the master bathroom, and painting the wooden furniture that would go in her sun room. However, she wasn't just painting the armoire and bench; she was crackling them, something she had never done before.

With a notebook in front of her, pen in hand, and the television's volume turned loud enough for her to hear it clearly, Marissa sat in the teacher's lounge on her lunch break, food forgotten while her attention remained fixated upon the home remodeling program she was watching. Because she had known they were going to discuss crackling that day, she had come prepared to take notes, and, luckily for her, no one else was eating inside that day. Instead, they were enjoying the beautiful fall afternoon and sitting outside to have their lunch, leaving her blissfully alone in the harshly illuminated, blandly decorated, and clinically scented teacher's lounge. In fact, upon closer inspection of the room, she realized that perhaps she should start a petition with the other staff members to see if she could get their support towards redecorating the space. She would volunteer to do the work herself. All she wanted was their signature of approval on a sheet of paper to turn in to the school board. Hopefully, not even they could deny a request supported by the entire school's workforce.

"Someone told me I would be able to find you in here," a delighted, male voice stated from behind her. Too disinterested to care, Marissa remained fixated on the television and simply shrugged her shoulders in greeting. Not deterred though, the man continued. "I've been meaning to personally introduce myself to you all week, but our schedules seemed to have been clashing." Holding his hand out for her to shake, he pushed on despite her apathy. "My name's Shawn, Shawn Turner. I teach fifth grade."

He was muscular, not in a naturally athletic way but, instead, he reminded her of a man who lived in the gym, one who was too concerned with his physical appearance to actually enjoy life and the training he did during his workouts, taller than she was which, obviously, was a plus, had small, dark, almost menacing eyes, and his hair was jet black, overly processed, and slicked back with enough gel to supply the entire population of Little Italy, both male and female. In short, he made Marissa's skin crawl.

Shaking his hand quickly so she could let go of him as soon as possible, she returned his introduction with a response he was not expecting. "Since you've been asking around the school about me, why I don't know, you apparently know who I am already, so, as far as I'm concerned, we have nothing else to say to each other."

"That's no way to make friends at a new job."

"Who said I was looking to make any friends," she snapped, annoyed that he was ruining her peaceful, quiet lunch. "If you'll excuse me, I was trying to accomplish something, so, if you could either leave or sit somewhere else and quit talking to me, I would appreciate it."

"You're a feisty little thing," the oily teacher continued to harass her. "I like that in a woman." Turning towards the television that was currently airing a commercial, he asked, "so, what are you watching, one of your soaps? You seem like a woman who would enjoy daytime television."

Insulted, she queried, "and what kind of woman is that?"

"Someone who'd make a man a good wife, a woman that would be willing to stay at home to clean the house, raise the kids, and make sure she had dinner on the table every night for her old man when he got home."

"Wow, Shawn, that statement wasn't chauvinistic or demeaning in anyway. No wonder you're still single," she scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him in distaste. "But, just so that there are no misunderstandings between us and to prevent another one of your pathetic pick-up attempts, let me set the record straight." Ticking the points off on her fingers, Marissa stated with a solemn face, "I'm gay, barren, and allergic to all hair products, and, if that wasn't deterrent enough for you, I also took a vow of celibacy. Now," she picked up the remote and turned the volume up higher, "if you've embarrassed yourself enough for one day, I'm trying to learn how to crackle furniture. Shut the door on your way out."

He watched her for several minutes, completely at a loss for something to say. Slowly, several emotions flashed across his face. He went from humiliated, to slightly angered, to bewildered, and then, finally, settled with being amused, the exact opposite reaction Marissa had been hoping for. Pulling a chair out across from her, he turned it around backwards before seating himself. "I dig you."

"You dig me," she mocked. "What is this, 1994?" Sneering, she rolled her eyes, "and you call yourself a teacher."

"No, I understand what this little temper tantrum is about," Shawn continued, evidently too pompous or too obtuse to recognize her resentment. "Fighting turns you on; it's your fetish. Don't worry, sweetie, I can be kinky, too."

"That's it," she snapped, slamming her notebook shut and standing up so abruptly she knocked her chair over. Lunch forgotten, Marissa prepared to leave, gathering her paper and pen, and moved towards the door. "I'm not going to stay here and subject myself to your harassment. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a perfectly good computer which has high speed, wireless internet in my room. I'm just going to Google cracking and get instructions for how to paint my furniture from online. I'd say good day, Mr. Turner, but what I really would mean is that I hope you choke on your salami and die." With that, she stormed out of the room, her fury radiating off her steamed body in palpable waves.

Instead of taking the elevator down to the first floor where her classroom was, she took the stairs, stomping and cursing under her breath the entire time in an attempt to wear off some of her pent up aggression. It worked, so well in fact that, by the time she opened the door to her room, her anger had transformed into regret. Not only had she lost her temper in front of another teacher, but she had, undoubtedly, fed the gossip chain for at least a week. Plus, she had inadvertently left her lunch in the lounge, but there was no way she would go back there and risk running into 'Shawn the Snake' again. Instead, she would just have to abate her hunger with the oversized candy stash she had hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk. Sighing, she sat dejectedly down into her cushioned, swivel chair, letting her head fall onto the desk with a decidedly loud thump.

"Bad day," a quiet voice she knew well asked.

Snapping her head up in surprise, Marissa's deep blue eyes met and locked with Joaquin's lighter, concerned gaze. "What are you doing in here? Why aren't you at recess?"

"I am," he insisted. "I'm just doing cross word puzzles instead of playing outside."

"J, you know that I think it's wonderful that you love to read and learn, but it's important that you just let go and play sometimes."

"Oh, I do," the little boy reassured her, "don't worry. They were just going to play basketball today. Although being short means I don't get elbows to the face, it also means that I never make a basket. Plus," he added, a joyful smile lighting up his youthful expression, "my Dad and I are competing to see who can finish the most puzzles this week. We have the same book, and we're going to tally them up on Sunday evening. He works on his during his lunch break, so it's only fair if I work on mine during recess."

"You and your Dad always seem to be competing over something," Marissa stated, suddenly too interested in the child sitting before her to worry about the scene she had just made in the teacher's lounge. "Does this competitive steak run in your Mom, too?"

"I wouldn't know," he shrugged. "I don't really have a Mom." When her face showed its obvious confusion, he elaborated. "Well, I mean, of course I have a Mom, everyone does, but I really don't know her. She left town a while ago, and, even when she was still around, she was always too busy for me."

A silent, implicit understanding seemed to pass between them. "Sometimes," Marissa mused, "it's better for a parent to leave if they really don't want to be a part of your life. It's less painful that way, because then you're not constantly reminded that you're a burden to them. Sometimes I wish that my Dad would have realized that, but that would have left my sister and I alone with my Mom, and that, well, let's just say that would have been a scary living arrangement." Deciding they needed to forget their darker thoughts, she pulled open her secret bottom drawer and motioned for Joaquin to move to her side. "Take your pick," she directed him, "and take more than one. This is going to be my lunch since I left the meal I packed in the teacher's lounge."

"Why don't you just go back and get it?"

"I can't," she explained, "There's a slimy rodent on the prowl in there, and, I for one, do not want to be bitten."

Chuckling, Joaquin asked her, "Mr. Turner?"

"I see his reputation precedes him. Someone should talk to the other teachers, because their welcome wagon needs a serious overhaul."

Standing up, the eight year old moved towards the door, motioning with his hand to signal that he was leaving. "If you want, I could go up there and get it for you."

"Ah, don't worry about it, kid. I appreciate the offer, but no one should be exposed to Shawn Turner unless it's absolutely necessary." Unwrapping another piece of candy, she popped it in her mouth. "I'll just stick with the candy. It's not the first time my lunch consisted of nothing but sugar. In fact, I tend to enjoy overdosing on chocolate. Besides," Marissa added with a sigh, "it might put me in a better mood."

Crossword puzzles forgotten, J took a seat beside his teacher on the floor, legs crossed and arms close enough to reach into the bottom drawer for more candy. "Candy's not going to make you feel better," he told her in all serious. "What you need is speed."

Stifling a laugh, she teased him, "I hope you're not referring to the drug."

"Of course not," he chuckled, rolling his eyes at her comment. "When I'm in a bad mood, the thing that always makes me feel better is my dirt bike. My Dad will take me up to the trails in the mountains, and we'll ride all day."

"Do you compete?"

"Yeah," Joaquin answered, the light in his crystal blue eyes alerting her to the fact that his passion was riding. "I could bring you in some pictures if you wanted to see them."

"That would be great, and, hey," she suggested, "maybe someday you could let me know about one of your competitions and I could come and watch you."

"I'd like that."

"There's just one problem though," Marissa stated, her mood suddenly deflating again. "I don't have a dirt bike, so we're going to have to come up with another way to cheer me up."

"You could always buy one," J pointed out.

"Too expensive," she argued. "Plus, I'm not the most coordinated person in the world. I can barely handle standing on a ladder while balancing a tray of paint. Put me on a temperamental machine with a mind of its own, and I'd be road kill."

"Then you need to find a boyfriend who either rides dirt bikes or drives a motorcycle."

"What is with all this sudden interest in my personal life," Marissa groused, playfully glaring at her young friend. "I don't need a man in my life to be happy. Between my job, my pets, my friends, avoiding my Mother, and remodeling my house, I have enough headaches to contend with. A boyfriend would simply make the pain increase into a migraine."

"My Dad doesn't date that much either," the eight year old commiserated with her, "but Margie's determined to set him up with someone."

"Note to self, steer clear of Margie when she's in a 'Merry Matchmaker' mood." Crossing her legs in determination, she watched J closely. "Alright, Mr. Competitive, I have a game for you. Get to a computer," she instructed him. As soon as he was seated and ready to start, she explained. "The first one who finds a detailed and accurate set of instructions with pictures for how to crackle furniture wins."

"Wins what?"

Thinking about the prize for a moment, Marissa remained quiet. Finally, once she had her answer, she spoke up. "Winner gets to pick what book we read next in class." Nothing else needed to be said, and the two reading obsessed, slightly nerdy, definitely introverted friends were off, racing each other, and surfing the net.

"What the hell happened to you," Margie greeted Marissa as she stepped into the café later that evening. "You look like you took a nose dive into a bottle of Jack Daniels, swam around for a few hours, and then surfaced to have the worst hangover ever experienced by mankind?"

"You really know how to make a girl feel welcome," the younger woman complained, crawling up onto a barstool and resting her elbows on the gleaming mahogany.

"Aw, don't worry, sweetie," the brunette tried to reassure her, missing her friend's visible wince at the endearment, a reminder of 'Shawn the Snake.' "I have a secret hangover remedy which has proven to cure even the side effects of tequila."

"I'm not hung over."

Confused, Margie regarded her closely. "Then what's wrong."

Sighing, the blonde explained, "I was hit on by this real jerk at work today."

"Well, that makes sense," the older woman shrugged her shoulders, "you're hot. Did you really think you wouldn't get hit on?"

"I was hoping I wouldn't," Marissa complained, frowning, "and, if it's really necessary, I would have preferred someone who had evolved past the Neanderthal stage of development."

"Sounds messy," the brunette commiserated. "Perhaps you should get drunk."

"I'm not getting drunk. I have crackling to do."

"Ooh," Margie taunted, "just what every single gal wants to do on her Friday night."

"Stop right there," the younger woman warned her friend. "I do not need you trying to match me up with some poor, desperate drunk who cries in his beer and still lives with his mother. I'm perfectly content remaining single."

"How did you know…"

"About you setting up J's Dad," Marissa finished the question for the older woman. "He, Joaquin, told me about it during my lunch break today. After the local 'members only' jacket wearing chump tried to hit on me, I hid out in my classroom, and he was trying to avoid playing basketball, so we talked."

"Fine, I won't set you up with anyone, but there's a condition."

"This ought to be interesting," the blonde mumbled under her breath.

"I need you to baby-sit J for me tomorrow night. That's when his Dad's going on his date, and, although it's cool that he hangs out here after school on week days, this is no place for a kid on a Saturday night."

"That's no problem," Marissa reassured her older friend. "I like hanging out with Joaquin. We'll have fun. He can help me around the house, and we'll eat junk food since I know his Dad is a little Stalin-esque when it comes to his diet. It'll be fun."

"Well, since that's settled," Margie smiled at the other woman, "what can I get you. I already know you're not here for my hangover cure."

Thinking carefully before ordering, she weighed her options. "Hm…I want cheese sticks, potato skins with extra toppings, a bloomin' onion, and I'll take a double chocolate milkshake while I wait."

"Drowning your sorrows in grease?"

"Are you mocking one of your customers, Margie," the younger woman asked, "because I can take my business elsewhere."

"Don't get your Vicki's knickies in a bunch," the brunette ordered her friend. "You better get used to men hitting on you though. Just wait until you have the parent/teacher conferences. Every single father in this town is going to be in your line wanting to talk to you even if their kid's not in your class. Hell, you might even get some of the single moms trying to pick you up, too."

"Aren't you just a ball of sunshine and good news? Thanks for the pick-me-up," Marissa complained, frowning. Taking her milkshake, she turned and climbed off the barstool, ambling towards the jukebox to pick a new song.

"Things are about to get interesting," the older woman mused to herself with a knowing smile as soon as her friend was out of earshot. Walking into the kitchen to make the food, she couldn't wipe the smug grin off of her face. There was something about the quandaries of other people dating that amused her, especially since she was happily married and no longer a part of the single scene, and Marissa was definitely proving to be entertaining.

"Thanks again for doing this," Margie yelled from the front seat of her car towards Marissa who was greeting J on her front porch. "I'm going to pick him up on my way home later tonight. Just in case the date goes well, I figured I'd let his Dad have an empty house for the night."

"You sound optimistic that your matchmaking abilities are above par."

"It's funny you should say that." At her puzzled friend's expression, the older woman explained. "He's taking her miniature golfing tonight."

"Doesn't he work for a golf course?"

"Yeah, he does," the brunette answered. "Maybe the greens are a turn on for him."

"Only you would think of that, Margie," Marissa playfully chided her friend with a roll of her eyes. "Now, get out of here. Joaquin and I have things to do, and you're cramping our style."

"Of course you do," she agreed with her younger friend. "In that case, I'll leave you two geeks alone. And don't worry," she added before pulling away, "I'll let you know how the date went when I see you on Monday. I like to gloat."

As soon as she was gone, Marissa turned around and ushered her eight year old charge for the night inside. "So, do you want to eat first or should we just get to work?"

"Eat," J answered.

"Good," she responded with a smile. "I'm glad you said that, because I'm starving. I'm going to put the food in the oven. Why don't you go into the living room so you can meet my pets? They're all in there waiting for you, and they better be behaving."

"How will I know who's who?"

Dismissing his concerns, she replied, "they have collars with their names on them." And, just like that, Marissa's first foray into babysitting began.

"Wow, you look…great," Ryan complimented his date when she came to the door while he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. And she did. Dressed to the nine's, she wore a figure flatting, low cut, short dress and heals that made her rather petite legs seem longer than they actually were. Plus, she was a beautiful woman. With a short, athletic body, dark, curly hair, smoky eyes, and a natural tan, she embodied the idea of dark and mysterious, but there was one problem. She reminded him of Theresa, and, as soon as that idea flashed through his mind, Ryan knew nothing would ever happen between them. He was not attracted to her. "Are you sure you want to wear that though," he questioned, "because we're not going anywhere that fancy. I thought I told Margie to let you know that I'm a pretty simple guy."

"She did," the woman whom he had been told was named Mandy replied, "but I don't get to go out that often, not with just starting med school, so I decided to dress up anyway. Is it going to be a problem?"

"As long as you're comfortable, it's fine with me," he reassured her. As they walked to his truck together, the quiet immediately descended upon them, and he searched for something to say. "So, medical school, huh? What kind of doctor do you want to be?"

"I'm not sure yet," she answered. "I'm debating between orthopedics and plastic surgery, but, if I follow my bank account which I tend to do, I'll go with the latter. What about you; what do you do?"

"I manage the golf course over at the country club."

"While you go to school for what," she pressed him, "to become a landscaping architect?"

Confused, Ryan stated, "I'm not in school. Did Margie say I was?"

"No," the young woman responded. "In fact, she didn't really tell me anything about you besides the fact that you're single and good looking." Although he looked away, flustered at the compliment, she never noticed. "Do you plan to go to school?"

"I'm happy with my job," he explained. "I've never really felt a need to go to college."

"Well, if you want a secure future, you'll need to go on for further education."

With nothing to say in response other than something which would cause a fight, he remained silent, calmly driving them to where they were going to have dinner and trying to ignore the jolts of annoyance running through blood stream. This was the first and the last time Margie was ever setting him up, because he had only known his blind date for a few minutes, and, already, he knew it was going to be a long, painful night.

"So, how do you feel about heights," Marissa challenged Joaquin, smiling at him curiously. "You can either claim the ladder and work on the stencil border around the room, or you could take the lower portion and work on the trim around the tub, vanity, and window."

"What exactly are we stenciling?"

"Oh, good question," she applauded him while disappearing into the spare bedroom where she kept her remodeling supplies. Reappearing, she held up the thin plastic outlines. "I'm going with a ocean theme in the bathroom, so we're painting mainly fish, shells, and waves, and, for the colors," she continued excited to share her decorating ideas with someone, "I wanted to go with calming, pastel colors that both sooth the eye and reflect the sea. Plus, it'll go with the colors I have planned for my bedroom."

Looking at her curiously, J queried, "are you redoing the entire house?"

"Yep, from basement to attic, front to back, floorboard to ceilings, the whole place is getting overhauled. I'm also going to completely redo all the landscaping, too."

"Why?"

His question caught her off guard. Starring at him for several minutes in silent contemplation, Marissa considered her answer. "Well, there are several reasons really. For one, it's a good investment, buying a house, remodeling it, and then flipping it, especially if you know the real estate market, understand where to invest your money, and can do a lot of the work yourself. I also do it for fun."

"This…working every night, painting, tiling, redoing hardwood floors is fun for you," Joaquin questioned, his disbelief evident in his crystal clear, blue eyes.

"Yeah," she shrugged her shoulders as if her answer was common sense. "I like seeing my ideas actualized; I like watching a house become a home and knowing that I did it with my own two hands. It's very gratifying."

Baffled, the eight year old starred at her. "And how long do you think it's going to take you to finish?"

"Six months, nine tops," Marissa replied without even having to think about the inquiry. "I have everything planned out in a detailed timeline. Once I'm finished, I'll put the house on the market and start looking for a new one to fix up and then sell."

"But what if something happens," he argued with her, "what if you meet someone, fall in love, get married, and decide to have kids? Won't you want to keep the house then?"

"That's not going to happen," she dismissed his idea, "so I don't have to worry about it. Besides, what's with all of your questions? Are you trying to get out of painting, because, if you don't want to help me, that's fine. We can go outside, play video games, watch some movies, you're choice. I just thought that this might be fun for us, that you could do something with me that I love."

"Sure, we can paint," Joaquin reassured her, "as long as my Dad doesn't care. Can I use your phone to call him?"

"Of course, kid. It's downstairs on the kitchen table. Run down and get it, and I'll set up our paints."

He was out of the bathroom and down the stairs in seconds. Suddenly, Marissa was quite jealous of his energy. If she had as much vigor as he did, her house would be finished in half the time. Pouting, she set to work.

"Sorry about that," Ryan apologized, replacing his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. "Bailey wanted to know if he could paint in his clothes."

"Who's Bailey," his date asked him, perplexed.

"Didn't Margie tell you?" The brunette shook her head negatively. Sighing, he opened his door and motioned for her to follow him out of the vehicle. "I was sure she did. Bailey's my son."

"You have a kid," Mandy parroted his response. "How old are you?"

"I'm 24."

"So, your kid, he's what….two?"

"No, he's eight," Ryan corrected her assumption, "but, don't worry, his Mom and I aren't together. Actually, we really haven't been a couple since before he was born."

"Impressive," she mocked, rolling her eyes and walking away from him. As soon as she saw where they were, she stopped in her tracks. "What is this?"

"It's miniature golf."

"I know what it is." Turning around to face him, she pressed. "What I meant was why are we here?"

"I thought it would be fun," he answered. "You know, it's nothing too serious for a first date, but, I figured we could talk while we played."

"I'm in heals and a dress," she pointed out, annoyed.

"And I asked you if you were sure you wanted to wear that before we left your apartment."

"But you never said we would be playing sports," she shrieked.

"Well it's not exactly high contact," he joked. When she simply glared at him, he changed directions and moved back towards his truck. "Fine, let's just go. I'll take you home and be back to my place in time for Sports Center."

As they climbed into the truck, he slammed his door in angry protest. Pulling out of the parking lot, he realized that his blind date was definitely the worst one of his life. So much for Margie knowing what she was doing. From that point on, he would handle his own personal life.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"So, the parent/teacher conferences are tonight," Ryan pointed out, turning to face his son while they sat in the parked truck. Ever since they stopped watching Jeopardy in the morning, the two Atwood boys had returned to their habit of always being early. Although being ahead of schedule meant Joaquin didn't have to eat his frosting lacking, fruit Poptarts for breakfast, it also meant that he didn't get to walk into school each morning with Marissa, someone who, no matter what they did, always seemed to be running perpetually late. So, as they sat together waiting for the bell to ring, Ryan and his son talked about the day they were about to face, their plans, and anything else they might need to discuss. It was their new morning ritual. "Do you want me to call Margie and see if you can hang out with her kids at the ranch while I go to your school tonight to meet with your teacher?"

"Nah, that's okay," the eight year old waved off his father's offer. "They're going to have stuff for us to do, games in the gym and the computer lab will be open if you want to surf the web. I'll be fine. Plus," he added, "if I go with you, I might get a chance to say hi to Miss Cooper."

"Ah, right," the older Atwood boy acknowledged, "the infamous Miss Cooper. You know, after listening to all the good things you've had to say about her, I'm kind of intimidated. I don't want to ruin your reputation with your teacher by messing up this meeting."

"You'll be fine," the little boy reassured his dad. "Just don't hit on her, and she'll like you."

"Why do you say that? What, is she anti-men?"

"No," Joaquin laughed, "but there was this other teacher who tried to pick her up, and he completely ruined her day."

"Because she's already married," Ryan offered.

"Miss Cooper's not married, and she's not looking to be."

"Is she….does she like girls?"

It took the eight year old a few moments to figure out what his father was asking. Once he did, he laughed. "She's not gay either, Dad. She just says that she's too busy for a boyfriend."

"Too busy?"

"Yeah," his son continued, explaining his teacher's personal life. "Besides school, she's also remodeling her home. That's why I had to call you when you were on your date, to make sure that I could paint in my clothes. We were stenciling her bathroom."

"Wait a minute," Ryan stopped him. "Are you telling me that your teacher, Miss Cooper, is the same woman who babysat you?"

"Uh huh."

"But you called her Marissa," the older man pointed out, confused.

"That's because it's her name. You see," Joaquin clarified, "when we're in school, I have to call her Miss Cooper, but, outside of school, she doesn't mind if I call her by her first name, because we're friends."

Wanting to know more, Ryan pressed. "So you see her a lot out of school?"

"All the time," J answered with a happy smile. "She's friends with Margie, so she comes into _Wired_ almost everyday after school. She's teaching me how to play pool."

"I wonder why Margie never said anything about her to me."

"Why would she, Dad," the eight year old questioned, shrugging his shoulders in defeat when his father merely sat there looking bewildered, obliviously forgetting a conversation he had had with the flamboyant entrepreneur a few short weeks before. "Anyway, so between school, her house, avoiding her crazy Mom, and taking care of her pets, Marissa says she really doesn't have the time or the patience to date."

"Crazy Mom?"

"Yeah, she's always trying to get her to move back home, to take over the family business, to go to the gym more, to get married and settle down. The old lady drives Marissa nuts, but at least she has a younger sister for her Mom to nag, too."

"And you mentioned something about her pets," Ryan pressed his son for more information. Suddenly he was realizing why the teacher didn't date.

"She has two rabbits, a cat, and a puppy. They're all really cool, but I like playing with Dr. Seuss the best. He loves to play fetch."

"She named her dog after a children's book author?"

"All her pets are named after writers," Joaquin told him confidently, "mainly poets. The rabbits' names are E.E. and Edgar, her cat's name is Emily, and she used to have a pet goldfish named Sylvia, but Marissa said the pressure of the name finally caught up to her and she had to bow out gracefully."

Puzzled, the older man turned in his seat to stare at his son. "What are you talking about?"

"Sylvia Plath," the child answered as if the response was common sense. "You know, Dad, the American poet who committed suicide. Her goldfish was named after her."

Finally and just in the nick of time for Ryan's sanity, the bell rang. "Get out of here," the father ordered his son playfully. "Have a good day at school, and I'll meet you at Margie's tonight after work," he hollered after the fleeing eight year old. Even though he said the same thing every day, it never stopped him from repeating the send-off. Turning on the truck, he pulled out of the parking lot just before the buses did. Suddenly, he knew exactly what kind of woman the renowned Miss Cooper was. Between her affinity for children, a lack of interest in dating, her friendship with a happily married mother of three, her nagging mother who had settled for harassing the younger sibling into marriage, her passel of pets, and her strange interests, Ryan only needed one phrase to describe the woman he was going to be meeting that evening: old maid. With the realization in mind, his insecurity and nerves disappeared. The parent/teacher conference was going to be a walk in the park after all.

Margie loved the lunch hour. Although no one really came to the café in the early afternoon, a nuisance when it came to her bottom line, it did give her time to do whatever she wanted. Sometimes when no one was in the café, she would figuratively let her hair down for it was always literally pulled up and away from her face, put on some ridiculously cheesy pop music, her one personality defect, and play video games. It didn't matter what system it was, she was a game addict; interactive or passive, conceptual or based in reality, educational or played solely for the entertainment value, she loved them all. That afternoon the plan consisted of Slim Jims, cheesy popcorn, an orange Push-up, Mountain Dew, The Spice Girls playing on the jukebox, and bowling on the Wii, and Margie couldn't wait. Just as she went to bowl what she hoped to be a perfect strike, a piece of beef jerky hanging out of her mouth, the sound of the bell above the door made her jump in the air, throw a gutter ball, and almost choke on her food.

"Isn't there something a little more productive for you to be doing this afternoon," Ryan taunted his older friend as he slid onto a barstool, a pleased almost smug smile lighting up his roguish face.

"Don't you have anything better to do than giving old women heart attacks?"

"Ah, you wouldn't have had a heart attack," he stated confidently. "All that Wii keeps you in too good of shape."

"You're a brat, do you know that," Margie asked, smacking him on the back of the head before rounding the bar to get him something cold to drink. "The least you could have done after ruining my break was tell me I wasn't old."

Solemnly, he replied, "I try not to lie. It sets a good example for Joaquin."

"Do you want me to poison you?"

"No," Ryan laughed off her threat, shaking his head in amusement. Once he regained his composure, he motioned towards the empty room behind him. "What did you do to scare off the customers, sing along with this cat screeching you have playing?"

"This cat screeching sold millions of records."

"Yeah, to little girls half your age."

"Listen, pal," Margie warned him, "if I were you, I'd knock off the old lady jokes." He held up his hands in surrender, and she continued. "For your information, lunch around here is normally slow, and it's not because of anything I did or didn't do. People are just off at work during this time of day. Speaking of which, why aren't you there?"

"I'm on my break," the blonde clarified. "Normally, I eat at the club, but I haven't had a chance to talk to you since the date from hell went down. Because of the conferences tonight, I knew you'd be busy trying to get out of here early, so I came by now so we could talk."

"Okay, so she wasn't the girl for you," Margie relented. "I still think we both learned some valuable lessons though."

"Yeah, I shouldn't let you set me up."

"That's not what I was going to say," she snapped, playfully glaring at him. "What I was going to say was that I should tell the women I set you up with a little bit more about you before the date, that way there are no surprises."

"You won't have to tell anyone anything about me," he argued, "because there's not going to be another blind date."

"And you," the older woman suggested, "should consider something besides miniature golfing for a first date."

"Sure, I'll do that," Ryan agreed. "When I find a woman, by myself, whom I want to go out with, I'll plan something more appropriate for our first date than a trip to a recreational center."

Sighing in disappointment, she rounded the bar and took a seat beside him. "You're really no fun, do you know that?"

"I'm only 24, Margie. Sure," he relented, "I already have a kid, but that doesn't mean I have to settle down and get married to the first available woman I meet. I'm young, I like my life how it is, so why not enjoy it? If," he allowed, "and only if I meet someone I really like, who gets along with J, and who I could see myself settling down with in the future, then I'll consider a serious relationship, but, until that happens, please, no more blind dates."

"You sound just like Marissa," she mumbled under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," the brunette dismissed his curiosity, "nothing at all. Forget it. I was just throwing myself a momentary pity party for one, because my friends really are poor sports."

"What," he pressed, stifling a chuckle. "Did you set someone else up on a blind date, too?"

"No," she groused, pouting, "they wouldn't even give me one teeny-tiny chance to find them their happily ever after.

"Sounds like, to me," Ryan stated enviously, "this person, whoever they are, was the luckier one between the two of us."

"Hey!"

"What," he challenged. "Those hours I spent with Candy…"

"It's Mandy," she corrected him.

"Whatever. Anyway," the younger man continued, "those hours I spent with the woman named after a Barry Manilow song are wasted time I'll never get back."

"You know, I really don't like you right now, so why don't you take your snippy comments and your pessimistic personality back with you to the country club. I'm sure they'll fit right in with snobs there." With a huff, Margie stood up from her stool and made her way back across the room to her Wii.

"You know you love me," Ryan responded with a snicker.

"Yeah," she agreed. "I love you like the little brother I never had the chance to drown in the backyard before my Mom could miss him too much."

"I'll see you later," the blonde tossed his goodbye over his shoulder on the way out the door. Wanting to get the last word in, he goaded her, "and try not to set my eight year old son up with anyone this afternoon. I'd like to hold off dating until he's at least into the double digits."

Her only response was to give the bird towards his retreating back, but at least it made her feel better.

"Margie," Marissa cried as she ran into the café that afternoon, hair streaming behind her in a crazed whirl of blonde highlights, clothes rumpled and wrinkled due to her frustrated movements, and arms laden down each with a garment and duffel bag. "Margie, please, I need your help." Looking up, she noticed that the business owner was nowhere in sight, so, in desperation, she turned to a customer she didn't know and asked, "have you seen Margie?" They hooked their thumb towards the back before turning around to their newspaper and iced coffee with a smile on their face. With nothing left to do but wait, the harried teacher made her way to the bar, tossed her things aside, and slumped down onto a stool, a look of abject bewilderment puckering her beautiful face. Minutes passed, and, still, her older friend did not come out from the back of the building. After five minutes, she started drumming her pastel pink painted nails on the mahogany bar, after ten, she started tapping her foot against a rung on the barstool, but, after fifteen and at her wit's end, she had had enough. Climbing off of the chair, she quickly made her way towards the doorway that led to the back of the café and yelled, "Margaret Lee Miller get your thirty…."

"Would you please stick a sock in it," the paged woman interrupted. "I do not need you to advertise my age to the whole damn world. You already revealed my middle name. What are you trying to do, run me out of town due to embarrassment?"

"What's wrong with your middle name?"

With a roll of her eyes, the brunette replied, "One of the nicknames for Margaret is Peggy. Why, I don't know, but it is. So, if someone who was very vindictive heard that my middle name was Lee, they might start calling me Peggy Lee, and then all I'd need would be cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and a metal coffee can to spit in, and I'd fit right into Podunk, USA."

"You're really weird, and you're kind of starting to scare me. Do you know that," Marissa questioned her friend.

"I'm not the one moving, uninvited I might add, into a bar when I have a perfectly good house to live in."

Confused, the younger woman queried, "what are you talking about?"

"The luggage," Margie pointed towards the four bags the blonde had brought in with her. "Sweetheart, I love you but not enough to live with you. So, pack up your things, hit the road, Jack, and don't come back."

"Oh, those," the teacher dismissed, "I need help figuring out what I should wear tonight."

"I would suggest clothes unless you really want to start a riot."

"Nix on the sarcasm," Marissa ordered, "or your husband is going to find out about that new karaoke system you ordered last week on his credit card."

Taken aback, the older woman exclaimed, "you wouldn't!"

"Try me."

"That's playing dirty, and you know it," Margie complained, wrinkling her brow in disappointment. "You know how much I love to karaoke, and it's not my fault that the old system got broken."

"It was your birthday party, your booze, your idea to limit the songs to heavy metal, and your idea to start moshing. How is that not your fault?"

"Semantics," the brunette offered as her argument. Deciding to let the topic drop, she guided the discussion back towards Marissa's costume emergency. "So, what's the problem with your clothes? Can't decide between leather and lace?"

"You have a dirty mind," the younger woman pointed out with a chuckle, "and, just so that we're clear, hopefully, I'll never need your assistance to choose between those fabrics." Unzipping the garment bags, she held up two different outfit options. "What do you think, professional," she asked displaying a stylish yet sophisticated black suit with a knee length pencil skirt and conservative blazer, "or playful?" The playful outfit consisted of a lightweight, cotton, buttercup yellow sundress.

"Definitely the playful," the older woman answered quickly. "We don't want you scaring the parents, and, trust me, that suit screams 'I'm a cutthroat businesswoman by day and a dominatrix by day. I eat kindergarteners for breakfast, middle school punks for lunch, and their parents for dinner. Fuck with me, and I'll break your kneecaps.'"

"The suit does not say that," Marissa argued with a giggle. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"But, the dress on the other hand," Margie continued as if she hadn't heard her friend's comment, "that says that you're classy yet approachable, warm yet not a sex kitten, young yet not naïve. Just make sure that you wear a cardigan over it, because we don't need an overweight, out of shape, one sneaky-peak-away-from-the-grave father catching a glance at the girls and keeling over on the spot. Plus, you should wear flats, because, let me tell you, you in heels could give just about any normally sane, confident man a size complex, something all women know they really don't need. Oh, and make sure you wear your hair down," she added, "but that's just because I like it that way."

Shocked speechless, the younger woman stood there staring at her friend, blinking once, twice, and even a third time before she found her ability to talk again. "Okay then," the blonde murmured, "I'll go with playful."

"Good, now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my office. Old Man Morris is about to get an early Christmas present. I need to change for the conferences tonight, and, if he's peeping through the window like he usually is, I'll give him a flash of my goodies."

"Why would you do that," Marissa wanted to know.

"Just for shits and giggles." And, without any further explanation, the older woman disappeared, once again, into the back of her café, her laughter carrying throughout _Wired_ for all her customers to hear.

This was it. Marissa sighed as she realized she only had one last parent to meet with. Three hours into the conferences, she realized why schools only held the meetings once a year. If teachers had to be forced to do it more than once every twelve months, there would be a national uprising of educational professionals, and it wouldn't be a very passive rebellion. Needing a treat for all her patience, she let her hand wander towards her precious bottom candy drawer, pulled out a large piece of chocolaty goodness, swiveled around in her chair to eat in peace, and stuffed the whole candy bar into her mouth at once, needing the instant sugar lift in order to get through one last conversation.

"Finally, we meet," the still faceless parent greeted her. "You know, I've been waiting to meet the legendary Miss Cooper since the very first day of school. I guess it's time to see if you really do live up to your reputation."

The man's voice sent shivers down her back. _Chill out, girl,_ she ordered herself silently. _You're either having an allergic reaction to fake politeness or it's been way too long since you scratched that itch, because there's no way this guy's face or body could ever live up to the pictures his voice just conjured up in your overactive imagination. _With that warning in mind, she rotated back around still chewing her chocolate, seeing the stranger for the first time. _Guess you were wrong, bitch. _

"It's nice to meet you," the man greeted her, holding out his hand for her to shake. She did it, trying to hide her blush. Finally, swallowing her candy, she went to speak, but his amused grin and twinkling eyes stopped her.

"What," Marissa questioned.

"It's nothing," he returned, still smirking. "It's just that you left a little….evidence." He motioned towards her mouth.

"Oh, sorry about that," she immediately apologized, blushing again while she hastily wiped the melted chocolate off the corner of her mouth. "I just needed a little pick me up. It's been a long night, and I haven't had anything to eat since lunch."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged off her concern. "My son always has food on his face, too. I'm used to it."

"Wait," she exclaimed, her eyes growing wide, "you're Ryan, Joaquin's Dad? Oh man," Marissa cringed, collapsing back into her chair and burying her face in her hands, "of all the parents for me to make a fool out of myself in front of, it had to be you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I wanted to make a good impression upon you," she admitted shyly. "J and I get along so well; he's a great kid, your son," she complimented him, unable to keep a smile off her face. "I have more intelligent conversations with him than I do most of my peers. You've really done an amazing job, raising him on your own. I couldn't imagine being a single parent, and you've basically been one since you were sixteen. When I think about what I was doing when I was sixteen, well, let's just say that my parents really should have considered hiring me a full time babysitter, because I sure as hell needed one. I'm in awe of you."

"I see Joaquin really does talk to you a lot," Ryan stated bashfully, his ears turning an adorable shade of pink. Pulling a chair up beside her desk, he sat down. "I must say this parent/teacher conference, so far, has been very different than any other I've ever experienced before. You truly are one of a kind, Miss Cooper."

_Holy hell, _she realized, _he's flirting with me, isn't he? No,_ she immediately argued with herself, _he can't be. He just…can't be, can he? _Shaking her head softly to clear her warring thoughts, she decided to just focus upon her conversation with the man in front of her and to ignore the conversation she was having with herself in her head. "Please," she insisted, "it's Marissa. Miss Cooper gives me flashbacks to when my Mom used to try and pick up my teachers by pretending she wasn't married."

"Did she succeed?"

"Unfortunately, yes, she did and more than once. But, enough about Newport's favorite nympho, we're here to talk about J."

"Yes, we are," Ryan agreed. "I haven't seen any red F's turned into A's with a pencil, there haven't been any 'Dear Mr. Atwood' letters, and he only has good things to say about you, so I assume he's doing okay."

"Okay really doesn't accurately describe your son's achievement. Joaquin far exceeds his fellow students with his scholastic capabilities and state test scores. Unfortunately, Chino Elementary has a strict policy against letting students skip grades. Have you ever considered enrolling him in a private academy where he could get more one on one academic attention and a more rigorous curriculum?"

"Well, no," he admitted, surprised by her question. "I've always known that J was smart, but no one's ever said anything before about him being able to skip grades or about sending him to a prestigious school. Do you really think he could handle that?"

"I don't just think it, Mr. Atwood," she assured him, "I know it. In fact, keeping him in an environment that is so intellectually stifling for him could, in the long run, be detrimental. If you were willing to work with me, I'd like to work extra with him after school. We already spend time together at _Wired _sometimes in the afternoon, but I can only do so much."

"First of all, if I'm going to call you Marissa, you have to call me Ryan," he beseeched her, "and, secondly, I couldn't ask you do that."

"Trust me," Marissa set his mind to rest, "it would be my pleasure. Like I said, I have fun hanging out with your son. He's not only a smart kid, but he's a cool one, too."

"Well, in that case, the extra lessons after school sound…amazing. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And I guess you can reward him with those pool lessons I've been hearing about," Ryan teased, offering her a wide, gracious, appreciative grin, "but, if you turn my son into a pool shark, I call half of his winnings….you know," he joked, "because he'd be nowhere without my competitive genes."

"I'll have my lawyer calls yours to draft up the contract," she quipped, shaking her head in mirth.

"Or we could just go out to dinner some time next week," he suggested, "and….work out all those details together."

_Oh yeah,_ Marissa realized, _he is definitely flirting with you. _"I'm sorry. I don't date my students' parents. I find it to be a conflict of interests."

"Come on," he cajoled, "can't you break the rules just this once? I promise to keep it quiet so the other dads don't get jealous, and we don't even have to tell J, at first, just in case it doesn't work out."

"Work out," she repeated his words, her eyes wide with surprise. "You sound pretty confident that one date would lead to more."

"I like you," Ryan shrugged unapologetically. "I like you, I'm attracted to you, I already know that you and my son get along, and I think, somewhere behind your rules and your professional conduct, that you like me, too. What's the worst that could happen," he rationalized. "Even if I'm wrong and the date is a complete bust, you'd at least get a free good meal out of it."

"I'd pay for myself, thank you very much."

"So," he teased, "is that a yes?"

"No," she argued, "that's me plainly stating one of my dating policies just so that the record is strait. There will be no date between you and me or me and any other parent for that matter."

"Are you sure about that?"

"You sound as if you're taking my refusal as a challenge," Marissa realized, glaring at him. "This isn't a game, Mr. Atwood."

"I know it isn't," he agreed with her, a pleased smirk on his face. "Trust me; I'm very serious, especially about you calling me Ryan. I thought we had already settled that issue though."

"We had before you started trying to ask me out," she countered with an aggravated huff.

"It's a man's prerogative," he stated nonchalantly, "but, for now, I'll let it drop. However, I still want to spend some more time with you, and there has to be a way to accomplish that without breaking your rules."

Rolling her eyes, Marissa admitted, "the only way I could see you again without breaking my rules would be if you agreed to me the class' room mother."

"Done," Ryan agreed, standing up and offering her his hand again. "It was wonderful to meet you, Marissa, and I'll be in touch with you soon about planning the first holiday party. It's for Halloween, isn't it," he asked rhetorically before she could respond. "I don't know about you," he teased, "but I really do enjoy both tricks and treats."

She shook his hand automatically, unable to come up with an argument to his acceptance quick enough to defuse him. With a loud, dejected sigh, she collapsed onto her desk, folding her arms and hands so her head could rest upon them. "I'm sure you are," she mumbled to herself in a whisper, referencing his fondness for the Halloween ritual suddenly turned into sexual innuendo. His only response was laughter, and soon she heard the click of the door shutting, alerting her to the fact that she was blessedly alone.

In silent contemplation, Marissa realized it had been quite the evening. Not only had she successfully completed parent/teacher conference night, but she had been asked out on a date by a man she was, secretly, very attracted to, and she had found her room mother, a very wickedly appealing room mother. Groaning suddenly at the sheer insanity of letting Ryan that close to her again and thinking she'd be able to keep him at bay, Marissa stood up from her desk and prepared to leave. As she was walking out of her classroom, turning off the lights on her way through the door, she mused to herself, _won't all the other teachers be jealous. I bet none of them have room mothers they'd like to perfect the 'Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma'am' with. _Considering what she had just admitted to herself, Marissa winced in realization. _Yep, I'm screwed, metaphorically speaking and, if not actually screwed yet, I probably will be soon. _

Despite her rules, despite her refusal of Ryan's date, and despite her conscience, she really didn't care that she wanted him. After all, it would be fun letting him wear her down, and there was definitely something to be said about building the anticipation….that was if she could last that long.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The situation at hand called for a feminine touch, a distinct combination of mischief, sanguinity, and panache that only a woman could provide, and Ryan Atwood was not above using his own suave skills and debonair behavior to trick the only woman currently in his life into helping him achieve that special air of first date anticipation and relaxed attraction….even if the intended second party was unaware of the detail that their meeting would, in fact, be a rendezvous of the amorous variety. So, with his plan in mind, he entered _Wired_ with his tail practically tucked between his legs, quiet, restrained, and subservient, even going so far as to push down his tongue in cheek witticisms about the George Michael ballad blaring through the speakers of the jukebox, the oversized blue raspberry blow-pop sticking out of the proprietor's mouth, and the fact that she was playing with a joystick. Instead, he silently ambled his way to the bar, took a seat, and proceeded to pretend he was so lost in his own thoughts that he couldn't spare her even a slight glance. It worked, because, within seconds, the older woman's interest was piqued, her game forgotten, her lollipop set aside, and the jukebox kicked until it stopped playing, which, according to its owner, was the quickest way to turn it off. Ryan knew the real reason behind her alternative disengaging process was two fold, her laziness and ability to swindle money out of her husband for anything she needed or wanted, but he let her think he believed her alternative explanation anyway. It was fun to both play along with and play with Margie at the same time.

"Why the long face," the brunette queried, taking her usual stance behind the counter and immediately setting to work to fix them both a virgin drink. After all, it wasn't happy hour yet. "You look like you either just got back from burying Petey or having a conversation with Dave Pelzer."

"Alright, I'll bite," he agreed, "who the hell's Petey?"

"The dog from _The Little Rascals_."

"Does Robbie like that show?"

"No, why," Margie questioned, looking at him strangely. "I do." He only shook his head in amusement, not getting a chance to speak before she continued. "Anyway, that still doesn't answer my question. Who switched your orange juice from fresh squeezed to concentrate?"

"It's nothing….really," the blonde haired man defended when the older woman across from him looked skeptical. He took a drink of his fruit smoothie before nodding appreciatively. "I just….have this problem to figure out, that's all."

"Tell me what it is," she demanded, "and I'll help you make heads or tails of it."

"Thanks for the offer," Ryan said appreciatively, "but I think this is something I need to do on my own."

"Then why are you here? This is your second, random pop-in within a week. First you showed up a few days ago to discuss your slightly misguided blind date…"

"Slightly," he mocked, interrupting her.

"Don't be rude," she snapped, playfully glaring at him, "and don't contradict a lady. Didn't your Mother ever teach you any manners, boy?"

"First of all, I think we both know the only thing my Mom taught me was how to run a low-grade con, and, secondly, as for you being a lady, that's debatable."

"You have me there," the café owner agreed, frowning. "Anyway, quit trying to change the subject. If you didn't want my help or advice, why come here to see me during your lunch break when you knew this place was one bad pop song away from being a permanent ghost town?"

"So you do admit that your taste in music is somewhat questionable?"

"Ryan Atwood," Margie exploded, smacking him upside the head, "you're purposely avoiding the point. So, quit dodging me, quit hiding in your drink or I'll take it away from you, and spill your guts….and I don't mean in the prepared, cagey, highly ambiguous Clinton-esque style of confession but in a grotesquely cutting, 'I suffer from a case of word vomit,' celebrity tell all orchestrated to scrounge up any sucker's pity and support. I want you to cry like a little bitch and whimper like Carnie Wilson if a bucket of KFC was taken away from her, pre her gastric bypass surgery. Capiche?"

"Nothing you ever say is ever really clear, but I got the general gist of what you were trying to get at. However, I really don't think you should help me with this."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not impartial," he explained, fully succeeding in capturing her attention. "You have a vested interest in seeing that both parties involved in my problem are happy."

"To begin with," she ordered, "quit watching CourtTV. For a man of few words already, you do not need any more influence in making your statements vague and purposely apathetic. With that covered," the older woman huffed despairingly, "let's cut to the chase. Who else is involved in this confounding quandary of yours that I care about? Is it J?"

"No, Joaquin is fine. He's healthy, doing really well in school, and happy. This is more about my….personal life."

"What personal life? You're a robe, a pair of sandals, and a set of rosary away from becoming a freaking monk."

"Well….that's kind of the problem. If it was up to me, I'd be changing that soon, but I have to convince someone else that they should leave behind their vow of celibacy with me."

Shocked, Margie gaped at him. "Dude, I was just joking about that whole monk thing. You seriously don't have sex….like ever? Isn't that practically a crime against society? You should be sharing that body and not hording it all to yourself."

"Not that I think this is any of your business, but I was just joking, too. I have sex," he reassured her, "maybe not as much as I'd like, but I'm no Andy Stitzer. However, if I can figure out a way to convince a particular woman to give me a chance, then that area of my life will definitely be looking up."

"I can only imagine," the brunette quipped, wiggling her eyebrows and making her younger friend blush.

"Do not go there!"

"I won't, because, the last time Rob became jealous and felt he had to prove his virility and manliness, I ended up pregnant with Alex. So, let's move past this insightful portion of conversation and jump to the truly juicy part. Who's the lucky girl?"

"You see," Ryan responded timidly, "that's where the whole conflicting interests' idea comes in to play. You know her."

"Yeah and about every other female between the ages of two weeks and seventy-two in this town, so, if you wanted to meet someone I didn't know, you'd either have to start dating online, which is a very scary idea in and of itself, or you would have to develop a strange fetish for Geritol addicted grandmothers."

"Alright," he relented with a sigh, "so you more than know her. You're close."

"Close as in we sit together at school events and gossip or she's my sister from another mister?"

"From what J's told me, I think it's closer to the latter," Ryan admitted, ducking his head to hide the self-satisfied smirk lighting up his face. She was playing right into his hands.

The statement stopped Margie in her tracks. "Wait a minute, J knows her? That definitely limits our likely candidates. Let me think," she stopped him from talking as she leaned against the back counter of the bar. "She'd have to be approximately your age, so that would put her in the 19 to 28 range, I would guess, she'd have to be relatively attractive if she already has you this worked up about the prospect of sleeping with her, I have to be close with her, and J has to know her." Mulling over the prerequisites, the older woman thought for a moment, silent and completely focused upon her deductive task at hand until realization dawned and she shot up, smacking her hands together in triumph, and screaming out of exuberance. "Sacred Succubus, it's Marissa!"

"Knock, knock," Margie announced her presence before, without permission, she stepped into Marissa's house. "Are you decent?"

"Why wouldn't I be dressed," the younger woman asked, appearing suddenly from the kitchen, sporting her customary paint splattered clothes, torn jeans, and messy hair.

"Aren't you supposed to be meeting with Ryan in half an hour?"

Shrugging and making it clear that the meeting was no big deal to her, the blonde replied, "yeah," before taking a bite of the pretzel rod she was holding. "So what?"

"First of all," Margie snapped, grabbing the snack from her friend's hands and keeping it to eat herself, "you're going to ruin your dinner, and, secondly, you're not going like that, are you?"

"Of course I'm going like this." Looking down at her own outfit, the younger woman asked, "what's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"It looks like something straight from the Bob Villa line." Motioning towards the hallway which would take them to the stairs, the café owner ordered, "now get those prime cut hind quarters of your upstairs and take the quickest shower of your life. I'll be right back to help you get dressed."

"Why are you making such a big deal about this," Marissa questioned. "Ryan and I are simply going to be discussing the Halloween party for my class in two weeks. I don't think it matters what I wear or what I look like."

"You're right," the brunette conceded, "except you're wrong." Laughing at her friend's sour expression, she continued. "You see, tonight is Friday the 13th…."

"Proof enough that I should not tempt fate with a blow dryer. My luck," Marissa groused, interrupting the older woman, "I'll end up knocking out the wiring in this construction site I call a home."

Ignoring her, Margie pressed on. "And, you see, it's tradition at _Wired_ that on any Friday the 13th, the only way you can get through the door is if you have on a costume."

"Come on, won't you break the rules once even for me?"

"Can't," the establishment's owner denied the blonde across from her, "especially since I'm not even working tonight."

"You're the boss. If you call in and tell whoever is working tonight that it's fine that I'm there in my normal, everyday clothes, then it won't be a problem."

"What do you have against costumes," the older woman queried, eying her friend closely. "Are you some closet Jehovah's Witness?"

"I just….ugh, fine," Marissa relented, tossing up her hands and stomping her foot in aggravation. "Ryan thinks that we should date," she started to explain, "but I can't date him, because I'm his son's teacher, and, if I dress up in a costume and go tonight looking as if I want to have fun, he might take this meeting as something more than an innocent conference to discuss the children's party."

"But, if you don't wear a costume," the brunette argued, "then you can't get into the bar, so you'll either have to go back to his place to discuss the plans or invite him here. Talk about definitely giving him mixed signals then."

"Oh, that's a good point," the younger woman conceded.

"Plus," Margie continued, "just the fact alone that you were trying to appear casual and unaffected by this above suspicion gathering of the minds by not wearing a costume will show him that you, in fact, were indeed trying and not truly feeling casual. To actually seem casual you have to be casual, and this nervous, slightly high strung energy you're giving off right now screams anything but relaxed and natural. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were some blushing teenager about to go on her first real date."

"You're right," the teacher relented, her cornflower blue eyes wide with unease. "Okay, I'm going to go and shower while you scrounge around and find me a costume."

"Don't worry, I just so happen to have one in my car right this minute."

"Now that doesn't sound suspicious at all. Why would you be driving around with a costume?"

"For your information, I have several strange things in the backseat of my car. An antique sewing machine, several pairs of snow shoes, a kit to make dream catchers, a veritable library of out-of-date issues of _Guns_ magazines, several reams of fluorescent pink computer paper," the business propriety listed off the items on her fingers, oblivious to the confused expression lining her companion's face. "The list could go on for hours, and, trust me, there is a very logical explanation behind why I have each and everything in my car."

"I'll take your word for it. No details requested, please." With that, Marissa turned around and went to walk away, but, seconds and only a few steps later, she stopped, pivoted about again, and gazed at the older woman warily. "Just what exactly is this costume of?"

"It's of a nurse."

"Are we talking scrubs, a stethoscope, and a roll of stickers for good patients or a short skirt, low cut blouse, fishnet stockings, and fuck-me heels?"

Grinning wickedly, the older woman teased, "can you say 'I've been very naughty, doctor. What's my punishment?'" She listened with her laughter threatening to escape her tightly pressed lips as the younger woman stomped away, groaning until she had disappeared into the second story of the house. Sometimes, Margie realized, duping people into doing what she wanted was just way too easy.

Several hours later than she had been planning on walking home, Marissa was finally on her way and, much to her feigned dismay, she was not alone. After locking up _Wired_, Ryan had insisted that she let him take her home, just to make sure that she got there unharmed. Under normal circumstances, she would have declined, but, seeing as she looked like an escaped, lost Playboy bunny from the mansion after the annual Halloween party, she had elected to swallow her pride, accept his offer, and extend the evening, hoping her consent would not send the wrong message.

"Why so quiet?" His words snapped her out of her private reflection. "Are you cold, because, if so," he offered as he started to shrug off his very tight, very 80's suit jacket which was a part of his dorky accountant costume, "you can have my coat."

"Thanks, but I think I'm allergic to polyester."

"Very funny," Ryan scoffed in response, grinning and rolling his eyes despite his best efforts. Putting his jacket back on, he pushed, "but why aren't you talking?"

"I was just….thinking about everything you set up tonight," she answered softly, smiling wistfully. "The party is going to be amazing; the kids are going to love it. I have to admit that I was skeptical that you'd be able to pull off your duties as room mother. In fact, I was starting to organize the party in my head just in case I had to pick up the slack."

Feigning indignation, he gasped. "I see how little faith you have in me. Tell me though, what exactly were you planning?"

"Nothing as elaborate as what you set up for us tonight. I can't believe you're going to cook an entire themed meal for the whole class. Garlic breadstick bones, spaghetti and eyeballs, witches warts, individual choco lanterns, and vampire's blood shakes," she listed everything he had prepared for her to sample that evening, "where did even get the ideas?"

"And to think that you're the teacher," he taunted her. "You see, there's this place a person can visit to find books on just about anything…."

"The library," Marissa offered, playing along with his game.

Chuckling and nodding his head in approval, he continued to explain. "J and I go almost once a week, so, when we went a couple of days ago, I picked up some holiday cookbooks. It was actually quite simple."

"And the games," she asked, referencing the elaborate lab of body parts he had set up for her to touch while blindfolded, the mummy race they had practiced just to, as he argued, make sure it was fun, and the jar of candy corn she was holding after being the closest to accurately guess the amount of pieces despite being the only one there to partake in the competition, "where did you come up with those?"

"The internet."

"I see. What about the movie," she queried, tilting her head to look at him while they walked along the sidewalk. "What made you bring _Hocus Pocus_ along with you for us to watch?"

"I figured we better have something to do incase the games don't last the kids the whole afternoon, and, as a responsible teacher, I knew you'd want to screen the film before you let your students watch it."

"But why did we have to watch it in the dark," she questioned, quirking her eyebrow in a silent display of challenge.

Ryan replied easily as if the answer was as clear as day. "To set the mood."

"I'm so not going there," she threw in the towel on their back and forth banter. Approaching her house, she pointed it out. "That's me. I'm home safe now, so your good deed for the day is done."

"No," he argued, continuing to walk with her, "the deal was that I would see you to your door, but, you know," he mused, "this doesn't mean the night has to end just yet."

"You're not coming in."

"I wouldn't presume that you'd invite me in on a first date," he countered, grinning smugly.

"This was not a date, Mr. Atwood."

"Marissa," he chastised her, "and to think we were doing so well. Please don't start with the formalities again."

"Then quit implying that this meeting was anything more than a teacher getting together with her room mother to discuss the upcoming class party. And, as for continuing our evening together," she pressed on, ignoring his raised hand as he tried to stop her rant, "the only thing I'd agree to do right now that would mean spending more time with you alone is vandalizing Margie's car. I still can't believe she shut down the café and gave you free reign to do anything you wanted to with the place tonight."

"Let's just say she owed me one," he laughed at her frowning face. "But, about this vandalizing her car idea, what did you have in mind?"

Her own grin quickly spread across Marissa's face, but her smile was decidedly crooked and nefarious. "Oh, just some soap on her windows, saran wrap around the doors, and a few well-placed slices on bologna on the hood, why?"

Ryan leaned in closer before he responded. "I just thought it might be something fun that we could do together on our next date."

"You see next would imply that we had a first," she contradicted, glaring at him, "and this was not a date."

"We had dinner together, we watched a movie….in the dark while sharing a very small loveseat, and I walked you home," he pointed out. "If that doesn't constitute a first date, I don't know what does."

"In order for it to be a date, I would have had to agree to go out with you, and I didn't."

"But you did agree to meet me," he defied her vehement, negative stance, "and everyone knows that in today's PC world, a meeting is just a goodnight kiss shy of being a first date."

"I'm not going this," she backed away from him and turned around to unlock her door. "I'll see you in two weeks for the party, Mr. Atwood."

Before she could escape though, his hand quickly shot out to gently hold her in place. "I had a great time this evening, Marissa, and I'll be touch so we can iron out those details for our second date." With that, he moved closer to her, his chest delicately brushing against her back in the barest of caresses while his head dipped down and around her shoulder to place a light kiss on her blushing cheek. She never moved, never said a word, and never even hinted that she had noticed his tender embrace, but, as Ryan watched her from across the street for a full ten minutes while he waited for her to finally go inside, he knew she had been affected by his actions. The thought was gratifying, but the next time they would meet, not only would he make another advance, but he would make sure that she reacted to and enjoyed it as much as he did. Despite her protests, she was crumbling quickly, her defenses were failing, and the attraction she felt towards him was glaringly obvious. Convincing her to date him might just be easier than even he or Margie had planned.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Marissa Cooper loved her life. In fact, there was nothing she could picture herself doing besides teaching, but that didn't necessarily mean she enjoyed every aspect of her job. She had a hard time staying objective when it came to her students. After spending so much time with them, seven hours a day, five days a week, for nine months out of the year, she would get emotionally attached to the children; they became a central part of her life. So, when she would see them hurting or in need of help, it was difficult for her to draw the line between being professionally concerned for their welfare and intruding upon personal family matters. If she saw a little boy with holes in his tennis shoes, the urge was always there to go out and buy him a new pair, but that was just something she couldn't do. If a little girl came into the classroom with tear stains on her small, innocent face, Marissa wanted to pull her into her arms and promise to make everything better, but physical displays of affection and comfort were frowned upon in the public school system. However, not even her lack of control when it came to helping her students was worse than the bi-monthly staff meetings she had to endure.

Though the conferences were mandatory, the majority of the time they served as a forum for those employees who tended to be on the rather catty side to spread their gossip and pick up more rumors. Every two weeks, the different grades would take turns providing the refreshments. Often, the snacks consisted of coffee and cookies, not Marissa's ideal food and beverage options, and that week had proved to be no different, so, as she sat at the third grade teachers' table, thankful that Shawn Turner was far across on the opposite side of the room, and attempted to ignore the steady, monotone of the assistant principle as he went over changes in the dress code, she had nothing to keep her bored mind or fidgeting hands occupied.

They had already covered the portions of the meeting that she had been concerned about. It had been decided that each grade would be responsible for a period of American History for the annual Veteran's Day program, so, after waiting several weeks to get her assigned portion of history, she and the other third grade teachers had approximately two weeks to write a skit based around the various Indian Wars in the old west during the late nineteen hundreds and the Spanish-American War, somehow making it cohesive and comprehendible to eight and nine year olds.

She had also paid attention during the discussions about the upcoming book fair, the holiday store the school would hold for the students where they would invite in local business owners to sell small, inexpensive gifts to the students that they could wrap and then give to their families for whichever religious celebration they observed, and the various charity projects the school would participate in for the holiday season. Those things were important to her; the arguing over whether or not the teachers should hold a Secret Santa gift exchange between them mattered little, and the lengthy discussion about the mayor's marriage problems meant even less to her. However, Marissa did find it frightening that so little time was spent discussing the curriculum, but, if she wanted to look at it with the glass half full in mind, the less she was told about what she could and could not teach, the more freedom she had to make her own decisions, and that was definitely a good thing.

"Excuse me for interrupting," the elementary school's secretary announced over the intercom, "but I have a parent here requesting an emergency conference with Miss Cooper. I tried to tell them that she was in the middle of a staff meeting, but they wouldn't take no for answer."

"That's alright, Dorothy," she reassured the older woman. "Did you happen to notice whose parent it was?"

"There are over 2,000 students in this school," the secretary snapped. Marissa could imagine her glaring over the tops of her bifocals, the eyebrows she had painted on her forehead that morning smeared from her various gestures of annoyance and impatience. "I have a hard enough time trying to remember all the teachers' names who work here, but to expect me to know all the kids and their parents, too, you've got to be out of your freaking mind."

"Okay, sorry I asked," the young blonde apologized hastily. There was nothing a teacher could do that would ruin her career faster than get on the bad side of the school's secretary. "Just tell whoever it is that I'll be down there in a moment."

"No need; they already went to wait for you in your classroom."

Before Marissa could say anything else, Dorothy switched off the intercom and ended their brief yet slightly unpleasant conversation. Quietly excusing herself, she fled the stifling confines of the teacher's lounge and made way to her classroom, walking quickly enough so that she couldn't be considered dawdling but not rushing herself, because she didn't wan to appear out of breath or anxious. Strangely enough though, as she pushed open the door, the lights to the room were still off, shrouding the space in darkness.

"Hello," she called out, confusion marring her smooth, wrinkle free face. "Is anyone here? I'm supposed to be meeting a parent for an emergency conference." Waiting several seconds, she still didn't hear a reply or see any movement in the classroom. "That dump ditz Dorothy probably sent them to the wrong place," she huffed under her breath, moving to leave so she could go down to the office and figure out where exactly the slightly hostile secretary had sent the concerned parent. However, she never made it out the door. Just as she approached the entrance to the room, the closet opened, two arms shot out, one wrapping itself around her waist and the other coming up around her neck so that its hand could cover her mouth and prevent her from screaming, and she was pulled into the small cloak room.

The tight space was disguised by absolute darkness; the natural light from the uncovered windows in the classroom not penetrating the thick walls of the closet, leaving Marissa with no way to make out who her attacker was visually, but, when their left hand uncovered her mouth and the right moved up cup her face, suddenly, it didn't matter that she couldn't see who was with her, because she knew who it was. She recognized his touch, and, when she let herself relax, she could distinguish the scent of his cologne, a purely masculine scent that had haunted her dreams for the past six days. Before she could speak, attempting to greet him and smiling warmly, he cut off her words by molding his mouth to hers.

The kiss was gentle, his lips whispering against hers with an innocence only a first kiss can possess. It was as if he was tasting her, savoring her essence, and memorizing it before he progressed the embrace further, but, eventually, as their desire for each other increased, so did the pressure and insistence of their lips. He sucked on the lower edge, drinking from her and torturing her senses by teasing her into an oblivion of passion. He bit the swollen, pink flesh, tormenting her with his promises of more but never giving into her moans of pleasure and murmurs of satisfaction. He left the delicious drug that was her mouth and let his own trail down the exposed, supple skin of her neck, licking the hollow in her throat, sucking on her pulse point, and nipping at the adorable tip of her chin.

When their mouths fused together for a second time, her lips flowered open under the persuasion of his own, allowing his tongue to dart into the inner recesses of her palette, their essences combining into one singular, seductive blend of need and wanton longing. Neither could breathe, but, if it was a choice of continuing their embrace or breaking apart for something as inconsequential as oxygen, something only others considered necessary, they would remain joined as one.

Slowly, the kiss progressed even further. His hands left her face, one going to clench and wrap around the long, free flowing waves of her sun kissed, golden locks while the other slid seductively down her body, his fingers trailing a dangerous, burning trail of desire across her skin, until it came in contact with her hips where he opened his palm and softly cupped her derrière, pulling her into even closer contact with his already aroused body and branding her his. As his mischievous digits weaved a spell of desire throughout her lithe form, his mouth continued to caress hers, his tongue twisted together with her own, as his voracious lips erased her unspoken protests one by one, further weakening her will to stay away from him.

Then, just as quickly as his assault upon her body began, he was gone, leaving her with only the stinging of her lips and the ghosts of his hands upon her body as memories to reassure her that he had even been there in the first place. Leisurely, almost as if she was in a trance, Marissa slid her own long, slender digits up to her bruised lips as she closed her eyes and relived the fantasy of a kiss she had just shared with Ryan. Little by little, her form, trembling with desire, lowered itself onto the floor of the closet, and, as the minutes ticked by, she remained there, a smile of pure satisfaction curving her well-loved mouth, lost in thought about the man who would, once again, that evening join her in her dreams. However, now she knew that those flights of her imagination could not possible live up to the luscious reality of his embrace, and she would somehow have to contend herself again with the pale images in comparison that she could envision at night, because, no matter what he did, she would not give in to his advances again. No matter what, she could not date Ryan Atwood. He could try all he wanted, but she would resist him.

First though, she would have to recover enough from his kiss to go home, and walking was proving to be a slightly problematic task.

"You know, you really are predictable," Ryan teased her, startling Marissa who was laying bricks outside for her new patio. He had snuck up on her and, while he talked, simply lounged up against the side of the house as if he didn't have a care in the world. It was Sunday afternoon, she was alone and not expecting company, and she was dressed accordingly in a pair of cutoff and bleach stained bib-overalls, only her black sports bra on underneath, and barefoot. With no makeup and her hair tied up in a tight, secure bun so that it wouldn't get in her way, she was anything but ready to spend time with Ryan, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"I….uh….you….what are you talking about," she finally managed to find her voice after regaining her composure and stilling her rapidly beating heart, damning her nerves and her inability to hear someone sneak up upon her.

"While I was driving J out to Margie's this afternoon so he could go horseback riding with her kids, I casually brought up your name to see if he would have any idea what you would be doing on a beautiful, fall day. Don't worry," he went on to reassure her before she could interrupt with her concerns, "he never suspected a thing. My son might be intelligent, but he has no idea when his old man is fishing for information."

"Okay, so what does this have to do with me being predictable?"

"He said that, like every time you had a free moment, you'd be working on your house, and, since it was so nice out, you'd probably be doing something to the exterior," Ryan answered, motioning for her to remain where she was while he carried over another pile of bricks for her before returning to his previous position. "Then, when I mentioned to Margie that I might stop by to see you since I had the afternoon free to myself, she also said you would be busy with some home renovation project, hence your predictability."

"Well, if I want this place on the market by the first of the year, someone has to do the work, and, as you can see," she gestured around the back yard, "I'm the only one who lives here."

"You know," he suggested with just a slight hint of mockery to his voice, "you could always do something crazy and out of character one day and ask for some help."

"From who," she questioned him, "you?"

"Why not?"

"Because you would do everything but help me get anything productive done. In fact," Marissa continued, finding herself on a roll, "you'd probably spend the whole time distracting me on purpose."

"Your lack of confidence wounds me," he quipped, chuckling at her less than amused expression. "Didn't I just carry some bricks for you?"

"You did," she admitted, "but you're also standing there, talking to me, instead of letting me get my work done."

"Well, if you'd prefer it, I guess I could kiss you again to distract you."

"Absolutely not," the school teacher argued, standing up from her kneeled position and backing up to put some physical distance between them.

"Why not," he pressed. "I didn't hear you protesting Friday afternoon, and you certainly didn't push me away."

Quickly, she scrambled for an excuse. "I….I didn't want to be rude."

"So, when men approach you and take you in their arms, you always kiss them back, just to be polite? Hm" Ryan nodded his head in thought, "I'll have to keep that in mind for the future."

"There won't be a future," she contradicted him, "because, what happened between us two days ago was a mistake and the result of a temporary loss of sanity on my part."

"I get what you're trying to tell me," he taunted her. "My kisses drive you crazy."

She simply rolled her eyes. "We're a little cocky, aren't we?"

"Thank you for noticing."

"You know," Marissa snapped, glaring at him, "not everything is a double entendre, so, if you could refrain from twisting my words around, I'd really appreciate it."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is," the twenty-four year old woman confessed. "You can tell me why you stopped by so I can get back to work."

"I'm here to help you have some fun, to help you loosen up a bit and just let go. Now, before you overreact and turn down my offer, I have two important things to say." He waited for her to signal that he could continue. To do so, she nodded. "First of all, I know that after our meeting to discuss the Halloween party, I kept referring to it as our first date, but this, what I have planned for us today, is not a date. It's perfectly innocent, and I swear on my son's life that I will not even once try to make a move on you."

Suddenly curious, Marissa urged him on. "What's the second thing?"

"Joaquin told me that one day when you were upset, he recommend that you needed some speed in your life, and I can attest to the fact that there's nothing like going fast through the mountain trails with the fresh air blowing across your face. It makes you feel free and relaxed at the same time, and, from what I here, those are two things you could really use in your life."

Tilting her head to the side, she questioned the young father. "You want to take me dirt bike riding, because, I have to tell you, I've never been on one before, and I'm not the most coordinated person in the world."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Ryan playfully teased her, letting his eyes run lazily up and down her body, "but your dexterity while straddling something is beside the point, because we're not taking J's dirt bike. I, unlike my son, prefer riding four wheelers, and, while I'm driving, you'll simply be sitting behind me and holding on."

"I can handle that," she reassured him, "but, before I agree to go with you, we have to set a few ground rules first."

"Go ahead."

"There will be absolutely no flirting or unnecessary physical contact."

"That's fine," the golf course manager readily consented.

"And we keep this to ourselves. J can't know that we're hanging out as friends."

"If that's the way you want it, I have no problem keeping our…._friendship_….under wraps. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Marissa quickly retorted, watching for his reaction closely. "When you drop me off tonight, you will remain in your truck, you will not walk me to my door, and, under no circumstances, will there be another goodnight kiss."

"Of course there wouldn't be," Ryan taunted her, "because this isn't a date."

"Okay then, I'll go," she finally relented. "Just let me go and change."

"That's not necessary," he dismissed her idea. "What you're wearing is fine." Momentarily caught off guard by his lack of concern towards her less than runway ready attire, the blonde haired, blue eyed teacher simply stood there staring at him for several seconds. "Well, are you coming or not," his voice brought her away from her thoughts. "If we don't leave soon, it'll be dark by the time we get to the trails."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she bit out in a mock impatient voice, dropping her tools and running towards where he was still standing by the house. Grabbing her flip flops on the way by, they quickly made their way towards his truck, their behavior towards each other simply friendly and unassuming. He stood a fair distance away from her, he didn't open her door for her, and their conversation and light and pleasant, nothing too heavy or emotionally involved. As he was backing out of her driveway, letting her adjust the radio dial to a station she preferred, Marissa couldn't help but silently muse to herself. If the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, then a way into a woman's was by finding her beautiful even when she looked her absolute worst and, silently, letting her know.

They had ridden for a couple of hours, Marissa laughing and yelling into the wind as he pushed the four wheeler as fast as he dared on the twisting dirt paths, before Ryan had stopped to take a break. Sitting with their backs against a large boulder, they were talking together under an ancient shade tree at the side of a creek. The only sounds breaking the silence, besides their own voices, were the natural echoes of forest life. Not touching, their body language was down-to-earth, platonic, relaxed.

"Can I ask you something kind of personal," the young twenty-four year old woman wondered out loud, twisting her form around to look into his eyes.

"Only if I can ask you something personal, too," he stipulated to which she regarded him cautiously, "and, I promise, it won't have anything to do with your sex life."

"Sure."

"Alright then," Ryan agreed. "As far as I'm concerned then, my life is an open book. Ask away."

"Whatever happened between you and Joaquin's mother? He's mentioned her before," she confessed, "but it was always in passing, and he's made it quite clear that they're not close. In fact, I'd even go as far to say that he wants nothing to do with his Mom."

"When I was growing up, I didn't have your typical childhood. My Dad, Mom, and brother were always in and out of trouble, but, when I was fifteen, they were in a car accident and died, leaving me on my own. If I had any other family, they didn't come forward to claim me, and, after a while, J's grandmother, Theresa's Mom, took me in and raised me. As for my relationship with her daughter," he laughed wryly and shook his head in shame, "it can purely be dismissed as one of convenience on both of our parts. We were bored teenagers living in a town with no opportunities, and, because her Mom worked third shift, we were left alone at night."

"So, with nothing better to do," Marissa realized, filling in the blanks, "you and Joaquin's mother would have no-strings attached sex. How long was it before she got pregnant?"

"That's the sad part," he acknowledged. "I had only been there for three months when she came to tell me, and, by that time, she was already two months along."

"That still left you with time to…."

"Have an abortion," he supplied, and she nodded to show he had understood her where she was headed. "Theresa wanted to, but I said no."

"Why would you do that," she exclaimed, startling him with her vehemence. "Don't get me wrong, I adore J and am thankful that he's in my life, but, Ryan, come on, your life could have been so much easier if you would have let her."

"I know that, and you're not the only one to question my judgment, but I couldn't do it to Mrs. Diaz. She was a strict Catholic, and I knew how much it would hurt her if we aborted her grandchild. I knew that she would rather work two jobs to help us make ends meet than to see us get rid of a child. So, out of respect for her and her religion, I insisted that Theresa keep the baby. Sure, her mother was not happy about how J was created, but she couldn't have loved him more if he was conceived by two parents who were in love with each other and married. In the long run, everything worked out anyway, so I guess I made the right decision."

"How long have you been raising him on your own?"

"Off and on now for the past six years," the young father responded. "After we graduated from college, I started working full time, and J and I moved out. Theresa, though she was still living with her Mom at that time, would only come around when we could do something for her; she was a part-time influence in Joaquin's life at best. Once Mrs. Diaz passed away, she spent even less time with J, until the point where she moved away. Now, she'll call sometimes, but the calls are few and far between, and she mainly talks to me, because she wants something. It's been more than six months since J talked to his Mom. I used to try to keep their relationship going, but there's no sense in forcing something between two people who don't want to know each other. So," he sighed, shrugging indifferently, "Joaquin has me, he has Margie and her family, and he now has you in his life, too. A kid could do worse."

"Yes," Marissa smiled at him, her bottomless blue eyes full of warmth and admiration, "I guess he could."

"So, I answered your deep, personal question. Now it's your turn to fess up."

"About what?"

Quirking a brow at her, he inquired, "how does someone like you end up as a third grade teacher at Chino Elementary?"

"What do you mean someone like me," she asked, confused and slightly put off by his choice of words.

"I mean it's obvious that you're not from around here," Ryan answered, "and, let's face it, you really don't look like too many of the women in these parts either. Plus, I've spent some time with you now, and, from where I'm sitting, it seems as if you could do just about anything you set your mind to, so why teaching?"

"That's like three questions in one," the twenty-four year old woman complained good-naturedly, "but," she continued before he could protest, "I'll tell you want you want to know. As you figured out, I'm not from around here. I grew up in Newport Beach and had everything handed to me on a silver platter. You see, my Mom is one of the most successful women in the state of California, and, trust me, she made damn sure everyone knew so. Anything I wanted, hell, even anything I didn't want, I got and so did my younger sister, but I hated it." Taking a deep breath, she pressed on. "The whole environment was suffocating for me. No one said what they meant or did what they said they would. The entire town was built upon this fine structure of lies, and, if you ignored the social rules or flaunted them, you were ostracized. Charity was not about helping someone but about giving yourself a good tax right off and making page six because the gossip columnist mentioned the dress you wore to the last auction or gala. Those less fortunate among my parents' friends consisted of people who were forced to drive BMW's instead of Bentley's. It was shallow and cruel, and, by the time I turned eighteen, I wanted no part of it."

"Well then what did you do," the young father urged her to continue. "I might not know much about the elitist society, but I can figure out for myself that it's probably hard to escape from."

"It was hard to leave," Marissa confirmed. "At first I tried to go to school locally. Despite not liking the type of people who lived in the community I grew up in, it is a beautiful place. I love the ocean, so giving up a beach front home was probably the most difficult part of leaving, but, once my Mom started trying to pick my classes for me, once she started meeting with my advisor behind my back, I knew that I had to run as far away from her as possible. So, I transferred to Arizona State my freshman year, left home when I was eighteen, and, from that moment on, supported myself without any help from my parents."

"And they accepted that?"

"Oh, not at all," she laughed, waving off his question with a flick of her wrist. "My Mom's still trying to get me back into the family fold. She wants me to take over for her after she retires, because my sister is a waste of silicone."

"I see," Ryan chuckled. "Now, tell me where this teacher part comes into play."

"It's not that exciting of a story really," she responded. "I took most of my core courses freshman and sophomore year, and, before I knew it, I had to pick a major and really had no idea of what I wanted to do. However, my advisor helped me, and, once he found out how much I loved children, he recommended teaching, I started doing some shadowing, and, within a week, I knew that's what I wanted to do. After graduation, I moved back to Newport and worked there for a little while, but, despite being independent and supporting myself, my parents were still too close for comfort, so, when the job opportunity came up here, I snatched it and haven't looked back since."

"One last question," he warned her before standing up and holding out his hand to help her up as well. "Are you happy here?"

Before answering, Marissa looked him straight in the eye. "The longer I live here, the happier I become."

Satisfied with her response, they made their way back to the ATV in silence, both contemplating the new things they had learned about each other on their non-date.

When asked about her actions at a later date, she wasn't sure what she would be able to say to excuse them. Maybe it was all the sugar she had consumed that afternoon at the party, perhaps it was the little devil inside of her that all people tended to have, or, yet, it simply could have just been the fact that since the moment she had seen _Mutiny on the Bounty_ in ninth grade, Marissa Cooper had always found pirates to be sexy. How Ryan had discovered her weakness, she'd never know, but, as she watched him move around the classroom, cleaning up from the afternoon's games and festivities, his coat, cravat, hat, eye patch, and stuffed parrot tossed aside so that he was just dressed in a loose fitting, white button up shirt, a few of the clasps undone, that was tucked into his high-waisted black pants, she finally had to give into the urges she had been feeling since the moment he had walked in the door several hours earlier and have him.

Sitting on her desk, the short, white, 60's style mod mini-dress that she was wearing as part of her Twiggy costume riding up to show a generous proportion of her lean, tan leg, she leaned back just slightly, lowered her lashes to appear demure in a come-hither, sex kitten way, and kicked off her flats.

"Oh, Ryan," she called out softly, swinging her legs while waiting for him to stop what he was doing and look in her direction. "Can you come here for a minute?"

Without saying a word, he did so willingly, grinning at the sight she made, and quickly crossed the room in a few, long strides. Settling between her parted legs, he bent forward, resting his hands on either side of her hips. "What exactly are you up to?"

"So, I've been thinking," she revealed, still not looking him the eye.

"About…."

"You and me and my decision to not date you."

"And have you changed your mind?"

"You tell me," Marissa whispered before lifting her hands up and wrapping them around his neck. Before he could respond, she pulled him down towards her, joining their lips in a sensual, lingering kiss, her mouth blossoming open for him almost immediately after they made contact. Quickly, the embrace escalated, and, by the time they realized what was happening, it was too late; they were both too far gone in the clinch to back away and stop it. Diving head first, they let their hands wander each other's bodies, Marissa's nimble fingers teasing open the still closed buttons on Ryan's shirt while his digits slid underneath the thin material of her dress and slowly proceeded to make their way up her thighs and hips until he found the lace edge of her panties. Mouths never separating, breathing matched and perfectly timed together, what was meant to be a simple kiss had turned into quite the inappropriate display of base attraction and lustful desire.

"Hey Dad," Joaquin called out as he entered the classroom. Noticing his father's frozen, rigid back as it faced him, he asked, "are you almost finished cleaning up, because trick or treat starts in half an hour, and I want to stop at home before we go so that I can fix up my costume."

"Uh….sure, buddy," Ryan replied, unsure of what to say while he made sure he didn't move so that Marissa would stay hidden in front of him. "Just….go back and keep playing in the gym, and I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Are you sure, because I could help?"

"Positive, J."

The eight year old's voice sounded suspicious. "Uh, Dad, where's Miss Cooper?"

"Oh, she's around," the eldest of the two Atwood boys stated. "I think she had to go and talk to one of the other teachers for a few minutes. Did you want me to leave a note for her?"

"No," Joaquin answered, "I was just curious." Walking further into the room, he froze in place when his father's slightly panicked voice startled him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting something out of my desk. What are you doing standing by Miss Cooper's desk, and why aren't you moving?"

Searching for something to say, Ryan finally replied, "I'm looking for something."

"Well, why didn't just say so, Dad," the little boy laughed good naturedly. "I pretty much know where everything is. I'll help you look for it," he offered, changing directions to approach his father.

"No, that's okay," the twenty-four year old yelled out, stopping his son in his tracks. "I've got it. You just get whatever you needed from your desk and head back to the gym. Actually," he amended his statement, "on second though, just tell me what you need, and I'll grab it for you."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

As Ryan stood there waiting for the eight year old's answer, he glared at a silently giggling Marissa who was holding one hand over her mouth to keep any sounds of laughter from escaping while her other hand was still playing with the newly exposed skin of his abdomen. Several seconds went past, and, without hearing anything from Joaquin, they both started to relax, believing that the little boy had tired of his game of twenty questions and was simply going to grab his things and leave. Instead, before they could alter their position and make it appear slightly less unseemly, his voice came from right beside them.

"Dad," J questioned curiously, "why are your hands up Miss Cooper's dress?"

"It's not what it looks like," Marissa offered, but the bright red blush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks exposed her response for the lie that it was.

"Well, it looks like you unbuttoned my Dad's shirt and that your hand is on his stomach," the eight year retorted, not missing a thing. "And it's also kind of obvious that you were kissing, because my Dad has more of your lipstick on than you do." Looking between the two speechless adults, he wondered out loud, "are you two dating?"

Apparently, Ryan was going to let her do all the talking, Marissa realized as both sets of Atwood blue eyes became focused upon her. "I don't know. Are we dating, Miss Cooper," the older of the two pressed her.

"Yes, J," she answered before turning to glare at the man still standing between her legs, "your Dad and I are seeing each other."

Shrugging his shoulders, the little boy merely said, "cool," before making his way to his desk so he could get out his books. "Hey Dad," he called out a few moments later, "does this mean that Marissa can go trick or treating with us."

"Sure," Ryan answered, but his response was immediately contracted by Marissa's.

"No," she disagreed, "I can't go with you. Listen, Joaquin," she explained, sliding off her desk and pulling her dress back down as far as it would go, "we're going to have to keep this quiet. I'm not sure how the school would react to me dating your Dad, and, because of the extra lessons I'm giving you after school, we have to be careful. We don't want the other parents accusing me of showing you favoritism simply because I'm dating your Dad. So, for now, we have to keep it between the three of us, okay?"

"That's fine," the young child agreed, "but that means we'll be hanging out more now, right?"

"Absolutely," Ryan assured him.

"Okay, well, I'm going back to the gym now." Smirking mischievously, the eight year instructed, "keep doing what you were doing. I'll lock the door on my way out. Oh, and Dad," he added, "don't worry about leaving right away. Trick or treat lasts for hours."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I told you this story wouldn't be ignored for long. Just to let everyone know, after this chapter, there are only three more left. Just as a forewarning, there are two characters from the show that have been included in this post as a surprise. I just felt that the opportunity was there, so I took it. I hope you find it as humorous as I found writing it. Thanks for your patience. Enjoy!_

Charlynn

Chapter Seven

His ministrations were sensual and hypnotic, his pace slow yet relentless, his touch completely and utterly drugging in nature. Closing her eyes, Marissa relaxed back into the cousins of the couch, inhaled deeply, and let the sensations he was causing inside her body wash through her. Up and down, up and down his fingers moved across her arm, barely touching the tanned, silky smooth skin yet sending pleasant whispers of desire and need down her spine, two things she was determined to ignore.

As long he did not increase his attentions, as long as they remained as innocent, she would be able to deny herself the pleasure she knew they both craved. After dancing around each other for several weeks, it seemed as if their relationship had started to burn like an unquenchable forest fire as soon as the spark between them had caught and ignited. From their first real kiss in her classroom, it took mere days before they were a couple in every way besides cohabitation which really was just a formality. Yes, she still had her home and he had his, but, three weeks after they started dating, she shared his bed with him every night, and the work on her house had slowed to almost a grinding halt. Suddenly, remodeling was the last thing on her mind.

They made a pretense of appearing as if they were nothing but acquaintances when in public. In fact, they even went so far as to sneak around. If the three of them went out for dinner at night, he picked her up a at a different place every time, they drove out of town to find a restaurant where there would be little chance of running into someone they knew, and she even snuck out of his house before dawn every morning, stool across back alleyways to reach her own home, and then proceeded to work like she did before they had started dating. Besides Joaquin, the only other people who knew of their relationship were Margie, her husband, and her children, and not even they knew the extent of their commitment.

It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, Sunday afternoon, and, while J was outside playing with Doctor Seuss, Ryan and Marissa were curled up together on his couch pretending to watch football. Well, he might have been paying attention, but men in tight pants running around on a field, hitting each other as hard as they could while trying to maintain control or reverse possession of a small, leather, oblong ball, and slapping each other on the butts when they did a particularly good thing did not appeal to her in the slightest. After all, she was quite content with the man spooned up against her back, and she most definitely preferred loose, faded, low slung blue jeans over spandex any day of the week.

She was so tranquil and lost in the exhilaration of her new life with Ryan and his son that she didn't notice the variation in his touch until she felt his fingertips brush against the underside of her bare breast. His hand had left the safe contours of her arm, traveled underneath the hem of both her long sleeved t-shirt and tank top, flirted with the sensitive skin of her hourglass shape, past the top of her hip, over her petite waist, and up, without stopping, past her ribs to stop and lavish attention upon her firm yet supple, understated yet generous décolleté.

"Whoa, slow down there, Ron Jeremy," she humorously scolded him, joining their left hands together and removing his from underneath her shirt. Opening her eyes, she twisted her head around to look at him, a smile playing softly across her face. "What do you think you're doing? J could walk in on us at anytime."

Ryan shrugged dismissively, so obviously intent upon getting what he wanted that he tried again, unsuccessfully, to slip his fingers under her clothes. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I know, but I, for one, do want a repeat performance…again."

"It's sunny outside, not to warm not to cold, and you brought your dog over," he listed the reasons they would be safe to play around. "My son is going to be outside until we call him in for dinner in a few hours."

"What if he has to go the bathroom," the teacher wondered.

"Then he'll go outside behind the garage."

Staggered, Marissa screeched, "Ryan! You can't let him do that!"

"Who do you think taught him to," he asked of her, smirking. "Listen, it's no big deal. All guys do it."

"That doesn't make it okay," she pointed out exasperatedly, "or polite, and it sure as hell isn't sanitary."

Leaning in to stop her from saying anything else, he kissed her tenderly, the embrace sweet, leisurely, and much too short for either of their tastes. "At this point, does it really matter how unhealthy J's behavior is as long as it gives us some alone time?"

"We have alone time every night together after Joaquin goes to bed," she replied. "I just don't feel comfortable making love right now when you know as well as I do that we'd be tempting fate and running a good chance of getting caught."

"Then we won't make love," the golf course manager assured her. "We'll just pretend that we're horny teenagers again who can't keep their hands off of each other but yet can't go all the way because their parents are in the next room."

Protesting, she tried to scoot away from him, but, just as she was about to climb off of the couch, Ryan slid his free arm around her stomach and pulled her back to securely rest against him. "Oh, no, you're not doing that to me again."

"Doing what?"

"You're not going to get me all aroused with foreplay and then not seal the deal," Marissa whispered vehemently. "If you got us both excited like that, you could sneak off and have a cold shower, but what would I do?"

Grinning at her, he teased. "Take a cold shower as well."

"You only have one bathroom."

"I know," Ryan stated, agreeing with her. "That's why we would share the shower, but, with you in there with me, it wouldn't necessarily have to be a cold one."

"And what would we do about J," she asked, attempting to hold back her laughter at his roguish behavior but failing. "Put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door?"

"We could," he acquiesced, "but we could also try a more upfront approach, simply by telling him that his Dad was taking care of Miss Cooper."

Rolling her eyes, the blonde, young woman taunted him, "so now we're back to calling me Miss Cooper?"

"It made it sound more dangerous, a little explicit. After all," he pointed out, "you're the one who called me Ron Jeremy. I'm just trying to live up to the reputation."

Sitting up on the couch and forcing him to do the same if he wanted to remain in constant contact with her, Marissa said, "I have a better idea. Let's talk about something else." At his dubious expression, she searched for a new topic of conversation. "How about Thanksgiving?"

"What about it?"

"Margie said she was going to invite you and J to her house for the holiday. Are you going to take her up on the offer?"

"Probably not," Ryan responded. "What about you? Do you have plans?"

Smiling self-deprecatingly, she revealed. "I'm not really big into the whole family holiday scene. Growing up, they were always a big production with my Mom, but, once I got on my own, I figured I would make them special for me, you know, but it didn't quite work out that way. Freshman year of college, I became obsessed with the idea of cooking myself a huge, lavish Thanksgiving day feast. Although I hadn't rushed yet, I had friends in the sorority house, and they let me stay there during the break. I made this ridiculously large turkey – it was almost thirty pounds, two kinds of potatoes, mashed and sweet, stuffing and gravy, cranberry sauce, corn, green bean casserole, rolls, a complete relish tray, and pie, not just pumpkin but several different kinds. I don't like to cook and I'm not that good at it, but I had watched several cooking shows, took notes, and the meal turned out pretty well if I do say so myself.

"Everything was perfect. I had even gone out of my way and bought festive table settings for the meal. That afternoon, after the food was finished, I laid out the entire table, took a picture to remember my first, real, authentic Thanksgiving on my own, and then sat down to eat only to realize that I wasn't hungry. I had picked at the food while preparing it, so much so that I was already stuffed before dinner even started. So, I put everything away, dejectedly watched _Father of the Bride, Part One _and_ Part Two_, and then proceeded to eat leftovers for the next three weeks. I haven't celebrated the holiday, or Christmas and Easter either for that matter, since. This year I'll probably just stay in, order take out, and try to catch up on some of the work I've been neglecting around the house."

Raising his brows in question, he queried, "and your Mom is okay with that?"

"No, but she's going to have to be." Petulantly, she crossed her arms over her chest as if to signify her desire to stand her ground. "She's been calling and leaving messages for me every day, but I just keep ignoring them and her. I told her two weeks ago that I wasn't going home to spend Thanksgiving with her and the rest of my family, but she's never quite learned what the word 'no' means."

"So then you'll come with us," Ryan suggested, smiling widely.

"To Margie's?"

"No," the landscaper refuted her idea. "J has a tournament that weekend a few hours north of here. We're driving up and staying for a few days. Since you don't have any plans…"

"Why didn't you tell me earlier about his competition," she wanted to know.

He shrugged. "We, J and I, didn't want you to feel obligated to go with us; we didn't want you to cancel any plans because you felt you should go."

"Don't do that," Marissa beseeched him. "Don't think that I feel obligated to do anything when it comes to you and your son. I love spending time with the two of you. If I could, I'd be with you guys all the time. The two of you make me happier than I think I've ever been before in my life."

"You do the same for us." Wrapping her up in his arms, he inquired, "so does that mean you'll come with us next weekend?"

"I will," she answered, "but on one condition."

"Name it."

"You're going to have to get two connecting rooms," the twenty-four year old teacher instructed him before leaning in and giving him a long, deliriously wet and possessive kiss, "or there will be absolutely no alone time."

"Done," Ryan agreed almost instantly, the words barely leaving his lips before he continued their embrace, progressed it, deepened it, reveled in it. This time, despite her better judgment, Marissa did not protest his advances, she didn't push away his wandering hands, and she didn't attempt to put distance between them. Their connection and attraction was undeniable, and she didn't have the strength to try…not that she really wanted to.

"What will it be," Ryan asked, holding up two gift ideas he had for Margie, "a collection of board games including _Operation_, _Guess Who_, and _Life_ or _Lite Brite_?"

"You can't be serious," Marissa laughed, gesturing towards his proposed presents. "You're going to get her toys?"

"That's what she asked for."

"Yeah, but Margie's not really a girly-girl," Joaquin pointed out. "I think she'd want something a little more…dangerous."

His father observed him. "Do you have any ideas?"

"Here's one for you," she suggested. "Why don't you just get her a gift certificate and then she could pick out her own toys."

"Gift certificates are so impersonal," the father figure argued. "It says that you didn't spend the time to really put some thought into the present."

"Plus," the eight year old added, "Margie likes to unwrap things, so opening an envelope just would't cut it for her." Turning to his father, he smirked mischievously. "I was thinking you could get her a skateboard, and I would pick out some really cool stickers for her to put on it."

"She's in her thirties, she's married, and she has three children," Marissa argued. "You cannot get her a skateboard. She'll kill herself."

"Are you saying that Margie's too old to play on a skateboard," the golf course manager teasingly asked her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her back to rest against him, hands free of the toys he had been holding. Laughingly, he placed a chaste kiss on the side of her neck. "I wonder what she'd say if we told her you said that."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Well that depends upon your plans for Christmas," J soberly replied, taking his father's side and helping him. "We know you really don't like the holidays, but, if you do what we want you to, then we won't tell Margie what you said about her."

She twisted around in her boyfriend's embrace and glared at him. "You're having your son blackmail me!"

"I like to think of it as teaching him how to properly negotiate."

Silently, she pouted while contemplating their ultimatum. Despite her total apprehension of all things festive, their weekend away during Thanksgiving break had been wonderful. During the four days they were gone, Marissa never once smelled the aroma of a home cooked meal, Joaquin had placed third overall at the tournament, and, just as he had promised, Ryan had gotten them separate rooms and they had shared plenty of alone time. It had been the most enjoyable holiday she had ever spent, and, even though she wanted to share a laidback, minimal Christmas with the two most important people in her life, she was unwilling to give in to their demands so easily.

"What are you conditions?"

"You must agree to do whatever we want from the 23rd of December through New Years," the older of the two Atwood boys stated without room for argument.

"You have to agree to go wherever we want to go," J continued for his Dad, "you have to agree to buy no gift certificates for anyone, and, while we're gone, you have to agree to spend all your Christmases with us."

"All my…," their words and the meaning implied behind them took several seconds to register. "No," Marissa immediately rejected the idea, emphatically slicing her hands through the air in a negative manner and pulling away from Ryan. "Absolutely not! Are you insane? We're not ready to take that kind of step! What about my job? We have two separate homes; what would we do with them? Christmas is only two weeks away!"

"And your point is," the landscaper taunted her.

Without another word, she huffed loudly out of annoyance and marched away from them, completely leaving the toy store to wander through other parts of the mall, leaving behind her two amused and even more determined blue eyed devils. Twenty minutes later, they caught up with her in a trendy boutique where she was picking out a complete outfit to give to Margie's daughter Sarah. She was holding up an eggshell colored blouse to get a closer look at the shirt when they appeared at her side.

"Sarah would look alright in that," Joaquin stated. "What do you think, Dad?"

"I agree," the older of the two boys leered, "but do you know who would look even better in white?"

"Who," the eight year old played along.

"My wonderful girlfriend," Ryan answered, "except, when she wears white, it should definitely be a dress."

"She could take one with her when we go away for the holidays," the little boy suggested, giggling slightly when she turned back to glare at him.

"I'm not going anywhere with the two of you," Marissa snapped, shoving the much- discussed shirt into her boyfriend's hands and fleeing the sore. As she made her way back into the commons area of the mall, she could hear their laughter following her.

It took them longer to find her the second time. Because she was hiding in a sports store, she figured they would never think to look for her there, but, forty-five minutes later, there they were, all dopey grins and twinkling eyes.

"You know, son," the twenty-four year old declared as if he was passing on sage advice, "they say that it's a lot like falling off the deep end. Perhaps that's why she's here – she's looking for a life jacket."

"You two can use each other for target practice for all I care," she bit out, gesturing wildly towards the rows upon rows of cases containing weapons in the store. "I said no," she repeated, once again sneaking away from them and disappearing.

Four more times that Saturday afternoon they played their little game of cat and mouse before leaving to go home. She had taken sanctuary in _Hallmark_; they had followed her moments later to comment on the wide selection of congratulatory cards the store carried. She had been browsing through _Victoria Secret_ believing Ryan would never allow his son into the store; the two of them had appeared suddenly beside her, J's eyes covered by his father's hands, to ask if she was looking for something special to wear on a very special night for an even more special someone in her life. She had indulged in her well-known sweet tooth by perusing and sampling some chocolate covered delicacies in a candy shop; they had whispered from behind her that chocolate cake was an option she could choose. She had hid in a dressing room of the largest department store in the mall; the two of them just so happened to find the one next to hers to discuss ways of stopping her from getting cold feet and locking herself up in a small room as a form protest while they were away celebrating the holiday season.

However, the very last thing she had been expecting occurred on their way home: she gave in. Exhausted from a day of Christmas shopping, Joaquin collapsed and fell asleep almost immediately as soon as they were in the truck. A few minutes into their ride while she and Ryan exchanged shy and questioning glances, the little boy had nestled himself into her side, buried his head against her shoulder, and relaxed against her as if her mere presence was enough to calm and soothe him. In that moment she knew their request had not been as outrageous as she had first thought. What's more, it actually seemed rational, sound, and practical, not to mention that it was exactly what she secretly wanted. So, with a gentle smile and warm, bright, tear filled eyes, she waited until Ryan pulled up to a stoplight to lock gazes with him, a simple nod on her part declaring to him her concurrence. They would be spending the holidays together just as he and J wanted, but the nine days would be so much more than that; they would also cement their future.

"Welcome to the _Hopelessly Devoted to You_ _Spa and Resort_, the gangly, curly haired man of their age greeted Ryan and Marissa, a travel weary Joaquin sitting behind them in the lobby with their luggage. "I, Seth Cohen, am the manager of this delightful establishment. My partner and I," he motioned towards a younger redhead who simply smiled and nodded at them for several moments, his large, bug eyes never once blinking the entire time, "will do everything in our power to make sure your stay here is enjoyable. I see on your check in information that you're planning to be wed while you're here in sunny Cabo-San Lucas, Mexico. Would you prefer a civil, Christian, or Jewish ceremony? We can perform all three of them here."

Slightly startled by the bizarre man standing before them, Ryan stumbled over his words. "I…we don't…how?"

"My father, the Honorable Judge Sanford Cohen and part owner of this expensive pile of bricks, performs the civil ceremonies, and I am both a minister and a rabbi, so I perform both of the religious ceremonies. Chester, my right hand man, my second in command, my protégé, here handles the more artist portions of the ceremony. He's in charge of playing the organ."

Kicking herself for being curious but unable to not ask any questions, Marissa inquired, "how is that even legal?"

"I assure you that Chester is of age."

"No, no, not that, Mr. Cohen," she corrected him. "I meant how can you be an ordained priest and a rabbi?"

"Dad was a Jew; Mom was a gentile," the outspoken manager explained. "I had the best of both worlds and found a way to use them both as a part of my career."

"And the two separate religions are okay with you being…," Ryan prompted.

"Being devilishly handsome, obscenely wealthy, and unbelievably intelligent," Seth quipped, grinning ridiculously while sticking out his chest. Dressed in a vintage suit, pink Oxford dress shirt, skinny tie, and Chuck Taylor's, he was anything but the picture of masculinity. "Of course."

Marissa had to bite her tongue from laughing at her fiancé while he rolled his eyes at the other man's comment. "That's not what I was implying," Ryan stated. "I was wondering if both churches were accepting of your sexuality." Signaling towards the still silent Chester, he expanded, "of your relationship with another man."

"Oh," Seth's big brown eyes widened in surprise. "We're not that kind of partners; we're just friends who happen work together, too." Lowering his voice, he whispered as if they were conspiring together. "Between you and me, you know, I've tried it; I've swung both ways before, but I've got to tell you, once you go dick, you're going to be sick." Ryan and Marissa, mouths agape with shock, stared at him, completely at a loss for anything to say in response. "Come on, where's your sense of humor," the curly haired man joked. "I was just kidding. In fact, if you want candor, I'm still waiting to experience a straight relationship before I try comparing it to some guy-on-guy action."

With a furrowed brow, Marissa asked, "that was another joke, right?"

The hotel manager/minister/rabbi rolled his eyes. "Yes," he answered. "Even once I sleep with a woman, I'm not going to try it with a man. I find I possess a lack of attraction towards the male posterior, a necessary trait if one wants to be gay."

"You were left alone a lot when you were a child, weren't you," Ryan questioned him. "Your parents were workaholics who over-indulged and pampered you so much, the other kids refused to play with you, so you spent large quantities of time by yourself, right?"

"How did you know?"

Closing his eyes and shaking his head tiredly, the blonde retorted, "lucky guess," before turning away and attempting to escape both the lobby of the hotel and the two men who operated it.

"Wait," Seth's slightly high pitched voice stopped him. "You didn't say which wedding you preferred."

"Is your father as weird as you are?" Apparently, Marissa realized, her fiancé had tired of polite conversation.

"He might me wary of the tweezers and have a tendency to break into show tunes while he's in the shower, but, no," the manager replied thoughtfully, "I wouldn't say he's as eccentric as I am. Definitely not as cool as me either, but that's a whole different story. What do you think, Chester?"

The three other adults turned to look at the fourth, still mute one in their group. The redhead simply shrugged, smiling to show off his rather large bucked teeth and staring, once again, without blinking.

"He agrees with me," Seth translated for his partner.

"We'll have a civil ceremony then, please," Marissa decided, speaking over her shoulder as she joined her future husband and stepson by the elevators.

"Can I interest you or the little first mate there in a sailing lesson," the curly haired young man continued despite the fact that his three, newly arrived guests were trying to escape from him as quickly as possible. "We also offer Yogalati classes, hold Magic the Gathering competitions every Friday night, have a complete comic book library open to the public, and have our very own life-sized _Goonies_ theme park out back. How about a tour for five later on," he shouted when they stepped into the lift. "All five of us will go together – make an afternoon of it."

The doors to the elevator shut, Marissa sighed in relief, and then both she and Ryan turned to glare at Joaquin.

"What," the eight year old protested.

"Why in the world," they asked at the same time, "did you ever choose this hotel?"

"The rooms all have Playstations in them," he replied with an impervious shrug, "and, instead of little bottles of alcohol in the mini-fridges, they have mountain dew, yoo-hoos, and pudding in theirs. I thought it sounded cool."

With nothing else left they could do, the soon-to-be newlyweds simply looked at each other and laughed. It was going to be a wedding neither of them would ever forget.

Her fingers were practically itching she was so excited to open her gift. Yes, she had a reputation for being slightly immature when it came to Christmas; after all, there was something so enticing about shiny red and green paper just waiting to be ripped off and immediately tossed into a forgotten pile of garbage. However, it wasn't the present from Ryan, Marissa, and Joaquin that was taunting her as it waited to be opened underneath her tree – it was the card, recently arrived the day before from Mexico where it had been over nighted from. It was Christmas morning and, as was their tradition, the Miller family was waiting for Robert to pick who would be the lucky first person to open up a present.

"Go ahead, Margie," he instructed, "before you pee your pants out of anticipation."

She didn't need to be told twice. With a shaking, eager hand, she reached out and plucked the card off the top of the present she had been eyeing so covetously, shocking her family that she didn't instantly start ripping wrapping paper. This was a first for her – reading the card before opening the present. Hastily, the envelope was discarded, and, once the card was her hand, she realized that it was addressed to not only her but her whole family.

_Dear Robert, Margie, Sarah, Robbie, and Alex,_

She read out loud. Joaquin's penmanship was amazing; it was almost as good as hers. His vocabulary, for an eight year old, was inconceivable; it kicked her vocabulary's ass.

_Merry Christmas!_

_Mexico is awesome! Our weather has been beautiful so far, and, as a gift to us, the manager of the hotel even upped our room to a suite for free. He said it was because he was in the Chrismukkah mood, but, between you and me, I think it's because he's afraid of Dad. He keeps mumbling things about water polo, shaved chests, and lockers, but I have no idea what he means. That's often the case. _

_Besides his strange ways, Seth, the manager, has become my friend. While he's teaching me to play shuffleboard, how to sail, and what he deems the proper way to dance, I'm showing him how to throw a punch so he can defend himself and instructing him on how to notice a woman's signals if she's interested. So far, he's a very slow learner._

_His protégé Chester is nice, too, weird but nice. He doesn't say much. In fact, now that I think about it, he hasn't said a single word yet, but he's always smiling, so I guess that means he's happy and having fun when the three of us hang out together. Basically, he just lets Seth and I make all the decisions though. _

_Dad and Marissa have been spending most of their time either on the beach, wandering around the town looking through the small shops, or "napping" in their room. When I asked Seth and Chester why they were "napping" so much, curious as to what they would say, Seth said they were testing the springs on his mattress for him, as a favor, and Chester just shrugged, his usual response to any question, but, because I know for a fact that neither of them have experienced what was occurring in Dad and Marissa's hotel room, I can't really fault them for not knowing. _

_Dad said to tell you we'll be home in time for your annual New Year's Eve party, and Marissa wanted me to let you know that she'll have souvenirs for everyone. As for me, I just wanted to thank you for my gift. We hope you all like yours, too. _

_Wish you were here,_

_Ryan, Marissa, and Joaquin Atwood_

Margie felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. For the first time in her life, she had been rendered not only speechless but unable to breathe as well. The responses of her family around her faded out completely until the point where she couldn't even register them. So, she never heard her youngest two children snickering at the implications J's letter had made about his Dad's relationship with Marissa, she didn't notice Sarah's delighted smile over the fact that she would be getting another gift from her Mom's friends when they returned from vacation, and she was beyond capable of registering the unique mixture of amusement and worry covering her husband's face. All she could see, all she could focus on, the only thing that she could comprehend was the fact that Ryan, Marissa, and Joaquin all had the same last name now, something that had not been true before they had left for Mexico.

Crumpling the card up and throwing it aside, she stood up from her perched spot on the floor beside the Christmas tree, ran to her cell phone, and immediately dialed the number of the younger woman she was quickly starting to think of as her best friend. Marissa's phone went straight to voice mail, and Margie spoke only thirteen short, clipped, angry words. "I am so not amused, and you have a lot of explaining to do!"

Merry Christmas to her indeed. Now, she had to wait six days for the chance to find out exactly what had happened in Mexico, and patience had never been her forte. Hanging up the phone, she threw it without looking to see where it would land.

"Bah freaking humbug," she snapped at her smirking family. "I'm getting drunk. Open up your damn presents." With that, she left the room, too focused upon her search for hard liquor to hear the peals of mirth she caused.

Undoubtedly and unfortunately, she would never forget Ryan and Marissa's wedding anniversary. However, someday, somehow she would get her revenge, and they would never see it coming.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

To Margie, there was something quite magical about New Year's Eve; in fact, it was her favorite holiday. She told everyone it was the camaraderie of the day, the general aura of hope that pervaded an entire room at the stroke of midnight, and the fact that she could get away with listening to her oh-so-trendy-ten-years-ago pop music and be considered retro, but, in all actuality, she loved December 31st for the simple fact that if you didn't get pissed, most people assumed there was something wrong with you. Despite owning a bar and despite going on a slight bender during Christmas (not her fault), the mother of three usually drank responsibly – a glass of wine at dinner, a drink out with friends, a beer or two when she played cards, but New Year's Eve was the only day of the year when it was expected of her to get drunk, and the freedom was oddly liberating, especially since, with Sarah at home with the kids, she didn't have to worry about getting home in time and in a coherent enough condition to tuck her children into bed. Yes, she paid for her college frat party behavior the next day, but, to Margie, the headache, the queasiness, and the general vertigo was a fair price to pay.

With a random collection of Madonna, always in _Vogue_, Christina, Britney, Jessica, and Mandy blaring through _Wired's_ sound system, - Madge was keeping odd company that night on the mix she had prepared, mingling with girls who, in the twenty-first century, had turned into ambitious, want-to-be movie stars or bald, umbrella wielding, serial marrying baby machines – the thirty-something year old brunette was well on her way to partying like a rock star…or at least a celebutant. However, unlike her younger counterparts, she had a designated driver (her poor, harassed husband), the figure of a real woman, and underwear on, all good things in her book. Just as she was about to take a sip of her rum and coke, perusing the celebration she had thrown, a bash that would undoubtedly kill her first quarter profits due to liquor consumption alone, she felt a soft, almost hesitant tap on her shoulder. Due to the angle, she knew who it was without even looking.

"You again," she pronounced, slurring slightly and turning around to glare at the young boy. "What do you want? Did you lose Sam and Chestnut?"

"Do you mean Seth and Chester?"

"Who cares," Margie shrugged, winking just once to assure her young friend that she really wasn't upset with him before continuing with the hassling. "You should go back to Mexico and play with your new chums. Obviously, I'm not that important to you."

"They were nice," Joaquin shared with her, "but I think they're better off as a dynamic duo. I think I was making Chester feel insecure, and Seth needs someone who lets him solely stand in the spotlight. My penchant for actually talking made him feel insecure and competitive. By the time we left Cabo, he pretty much talked nonstop just to make sure no one else got a word in edge wise."

"Say what you want, but I think if I ever expanded my café/bar into a chain, my first potential development would be into his hotel. Call me crazy," she mused thoughtfully with a twinkle in her eye, "but I think we'd get along well, despite the fact that I have a tendency towards diva behavior. From the little that you've told me about him, I have a feeling it's probably our mutual ability to drive your father to distraction. But that's enough about the ambiguously gay duo," the wife and mother announced. "I want to hear about everything."

"Everything?"

"Don't play dense with me, J," she chastised him. "Start with the proposal and work your way through to 'and then that's when we walked through the door five minutes ago.'"

"Well," he smirked, pleased with himself and the reaction he knew his information would garner from his older friend, "we basically blackmailed her into marrying my Dad."

"Blackmail, that is ingenious! I love it," Margie exclaimed, offering the eight year old a high five which he accepted. "Just don't tell Rob about it – he'd be jealous of the fact that he didn't think of it himself."

Curious, the blue eyed child asked, "how did he get you to marry him?"

"He…annoyed and pestered me until I gave in and relented."

"Romantic."

The café/bar owner nodded in agreement. "I thought so, but, anyway, unfortunately, this isn't about me. What exactly were you blackmailing her with?"

"She basically said that you were too old for a skateboard, and we made her realize that the only way we wouldn't tell you is if she married my Dad."

"Old, my ass," Margie growled, looking around the room for the teacher and finding her with her new husband as they shared a conversation with acquaintances. For some reason though, they didn't appear to be a couple, merely friends at the most. "She's on my shit list for that," the brunette declared, taking another generous gulp of her mixed drink. "Did she agree right away?"

"Actually, no, she was going to risk it. In fact," Joaquin added with an innocent giggle, "she actually ran away from us in the store, and we had to follow her around, hinting at the idea of marriage and bullying her into saying yes."

"So I take it the stalker behavior worked then?"

"Not really. When we left the mall, she was still pretty adamant that they wouldn't be getting married, but, by the time I woke up the next morning, she had changed her mind." He lifted his shoulders in a gesture that betrayed his lack of understanding. "I'm not really sure what made her agree."

Hopping off her stool, she quickly spoke. "And that ends your portion of the tale for the evening, thank you little Atwood. Now," the thirty-something directed him, reaching across the bar to hand him a party hat, a party horn, a bag of confetti, and breath mints "take these in case I don't see you again before midnight."

"Why do I need breath mints?"

"Because you're never too young to kick off the New Year with a bang, and, if you're going to have your first kiss tonight, kid, you should at least make sure the girl enjoys it. However, that is all the wisdom I am going to impart to you this evening. Go find your step-monster and make her play pool with you. I need to talk to your Dad."

J walked off happily, listening to her instructions and getting Ryan for her. By the time he reached her side, still drink free, she had already mixed herself another rum and coke and had gotten him a jell-o shot. Without a proper greeting, she demanded, "trouble in paradise already? Are we regretting our decision to run off and get married without consulting me first?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You and your wife," she motioned in Marissa's direction. "I haven't even seen the two of you brush against each other yet."

"We're keeping it a secret," Ryan responded, sheepishly rubbing the side of his face and refusing to meet her gaze.

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"Well, for one," he answered, "her job."

"Horseshit," Margie exclaimed. "That's a load of bull and you know it."

"Are you always this articulate when you're drunk?"

"I'm not drunk yet," she pouted, slurping from her tumbler of alcohol. "I'm merely mellow at this point. But, seriously, who cares what those stick-up-their-asses blowhards on the school board think. They can't tell Marissa who she can and can't be involved with."

"Of course they can't," the blonde agreed with her, "but they can make her life miserable, and it could negatively affect J, especially since she's giving him private lessons. It's five months," he reasoned. "We can handle it. I'd rather talk about you." Nodding towards her hands, he laughed. "You know, AA is not an exclusive club that you try to get into."

"Very funny. What, are we practicing our routine for the Last Comic Standing auditions now?" Rolling her eyes, Margie used the beer in her left hand to point towards the jell-o shot she had prepared for him. "That's not mine; it's for you."

"Thanks but no thanks."

"Your loss," the bar owner announced, leaning down and picking up the plastic cup with her teeth before sucking out the alcohol enriched fruity snack and slurping it out.

"Impressive," Ryan teased her. "You take jell-o shots like a sorority girl, and you've also learned the value of a shooter when you're drinking hard liquor. Your drinking technique has improved since last year."

"Shooter?"

"The beer," he responded.

"Oh this," she held up the bottle and took a sip. "It's not mine. I'm just holding it for Rob."

"But you just drank some."

"Holding fees," Margie remarked as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "However, despite the fact that I find our conversation discussing my route to Betty Ford to be enthralling, I want to hear more about this proposal/wedding/honeymoon. I cut J off just as he was telling me that your newly issued wife initially refused your proposal but changed her mind during the night. I didn't need any more eight year old euphemisms for sex, so spill."

Taking a seat beside her at the bar, he reached over the top and grabbed a bottle of water, ignoring his older friend's disapproving glare. "It's nothing as sordid as that dirty mind of yours is coming up with. It was actually Joaquin who made her change her mind."

"But, yet, he's unaware of this fact?" Her incredulous tone belied the fact that she didn't believe his statement.

"On our way home, he fell asleep and ended up cuddling into her side, and I think it made Marissa feel not only wanted but needed in his life as well as mine. It made her realize that my son loves her as more than just his teacher or his friend."

"She's the mother to him that Theresa never was," the brunette agreed, suddenly sounding much more sober than she actually was. "That's really quite disgustingly touching. I think I'm going to hurl."

"No," Ryan teased her, "that would be the alcohol poisoning kicking in."

"Psh, you wish, Atwood," she returned, chuckling, "because if I was sick, I wouldn't be able to demand details about the wedding."

"There's really not that much to share."

"Then make something up," Margie snapped. "I've been waiting for a week to hear about this, so I'm expecting to be reduced to tears, laughter, and nausea."

"It was pretty simple actually," the landscaper confessed. "We got our marriage certificate before we flew out, so, technically we were already married, but, when we got down to Mexico, we had a civil ceremony that was performed by a judge."

"Tell me about the clothes?"

"I wore khakis and a dress shirt."

"No, not you," she dismissed, annoyed. "What did your wife wear?"

"A dress," Ryan replied easily.

"You are such a man," the mother of three glowered at her younger friend. "How many times do I have to say it? Give me details!"

Instead, he pulled out his wallet. "Why don't you just look at the picture and see for yourself."

"You're a dipshit," Margie exclaimed, smacking him upside the head. "Why didn't you just show me that to begin with?"

The blonde shrugged. "You didn't ask for to see it."

"And how was I supposed to know that you were carrying around your wedding picture in your wallet like a little, henpecked bitch."

"You know, I'm not sure if I like drunk Margie."

"What are you talking about," she furrowed her brow at him. "She's absofuckinglutely fabulous."

"Anything else you need to know?"

"This was really was a simple affair, wasn't it," she asked rhetorically, handing him back the photo. "Did you have flowers?"

"Marissa carried a bouquet," he replied, "but don't ask me what kind of flowers they were."

"First dance?"

He shrugged in dismissal. "We didn't have a reception. Seth, the hotel owner, offered to sing a song about shins for us, but, as soon as he said he felt more comfortable with his higher range, we turned him down."

This time the older woman giggled for several moments, only stopping to take a drink of her rum and coke before cackling some more. "Do you mean a song by The Shins?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know," Ryan asked of her. "And, anyway, what kind of band name is that?"

"Sorry it's not as cool as Journey," the thirty-something wife and mother taunted him. "Please tell me you at least had cake. Marie Antoinette died for your right to eat cake."

"Your view on world history is frightening skewed. As for cake though," the golf course manager sighed, "we had something Seth called 'Wedding Pudding.'" When she went to inquire more about the dessert, he stopped her." Don't ask, because, trust me, you don't want to know."

Whining, Margie pressed, "can I at least hear about your honeymoon, and, please, don't tell me that there really isn't much to say about it either?"

"We're not talking about my sex life."

She protested and showed her displeasure by huffing dramatically. "Why not?"

"Because you always end up talking about your own, and, frankly, that disturbs me."

"But my sex life is more interesting than yours," the mother of three contended, "especially since, for a while there, yours didn't exist outside of a few tissues and a bottle of lotion."

Warningly, the blonde started, "Margie…"

"Fine," she kicked at his barstool, insinuating that he needed to leave her alone, "if you won't talk to me, I'll just ask Marissa. She, unlike you, is not a prude. Go make sure your son hasn't found the Cuban cigars I have hidden in the back for later and send your wife to me."

"What, are you not even getting up from that seat all night?"

"I happen to like this chair, thank you very much," she declared cantankerously. "Besides, it's close to the bar, and it affords me a complete view of the room. If you have a problem with it, don't let the door hit you where the good lord split you."

"You seriously did not say that, did you?"

Without replying, Margie simply turned her back to him and made herself another drink, opting for a fuzzy naval instead of a rum and coke. By the time she was finished, Ryan had disappeared into the crowd, and she perused her party, watching her friends as they enjoyed themselves, and chair danced until the young teacher she had befriended six months before joined her. Thankfully, because both her levels of patience and sobriety were low, it didn't take long for the blonde to join her.

"Hey, Ryan said you wanted to see me. What did you need?"

"You run off, elope, and that's all you have to say to me," the mother of three questioned her younger friend, astonished by the newlywed's nonchalance.

"It's not that big of a deal," Marissa argued. "Plus, it's not like you just found out tonight. J said he wrote you a letter the first day we were in Cabo. In fact, I helped him mail it so that it got to you before Christmas."

"Why wasn't I invited?"

"Because it's not eloping," the twenty-four year old pointed out, "if you plan ahead and invite guests. Besides, I love you, but there was no way you were going to be within a hundred miles of me while I was on my honeymoon. I hate to break it to you, but you're not so good with boundaries."

"Limitations are for amateur proletarians," the brunette announced, leaning forward when she spoke in an attempt to look her friend in the eye. She and the booze couldn't do it. "I don't restrict myself that way."

"How can you use words such as proletarian when you can't even focus your eyes?"

"It has taken me years of practice and dedication to become a sophisticated drunk. Not everyone can pull it off. However," Margie drawled on, smiling devilishly, "I think we should backtrack here slightly. Did you say something about a honeymoon?"

"Yeah…so?"

"That's what I want to hear about," she declared. For the first time that night, she put her drinks down, folded her hands primly in her lap, and sat eagerly waiting for Marissa to speak. "And don't leave out any of the details. I'm talking like play-by-play instructions from a porn director."

"See, that's what I mean," the third grade teacher pointed out. "That's kind of creepy."

"I was just kidding! If you're going to be such a prude about it," the mother of three rolled her eyes, "I'll settle for the soft porn version."

Sighing, Marissa relented…somewhat. "Our honeymoon was amazing, if you must know," she confessed. "Although the hotel J chose was slightly…odd…"

"Eccentric," the older woman suggested by interrupting.

"Alright, eccentric then," the blonde agreed, "but it was nice, because it wasn't busy, and the owner was great about hanging out with Joaquin and giving Ryan and I opportunities to be alone together."

"I heard," the café/bar owner admitted, wiggling her eyebrows. "What was it again, napping and testing out the springs on the mattresses?"

"Where did you hear that?"

Margie smirked, pleased with herself after hearing the younger woman's snappish tone. "It doesn't matter." Getting the conversation back on track, she wiggled her eyebrows, pressing for more information. "So, how many times?"

"You're just going to have to use your imagination, because I'm not telling you. This conversation is over," Marissa declared, standing up and moving away from the tipsy businesswoman.

"Wait, wait," the mother of three stopped her. "Have you seen my husband anywhere? We need to compare notes. I told him I'd fill him in on all the details I could wrangle out of you, Ryan, and Joaquin."

"I think he said something about going into the back where the strippers, coke, and cock fighting were."

"Oh, please, nice try," Margie laughed, waving her hand to rebuke her friend's teasing comments. "The first two things I could understand – after all, it is New Year's Eve – but you've got to remember that I'm an animal activist. You should have come up with something I'd actually believe."

"Have another drink," the teacher instructed. "I think you need it. You're starting to sound a little unpolished again.

"I'll drink to you and _Mrs. Cooper_," the older woman declared, raising her still half full glass and winking. "Salute!"

Even if his wife had refused to count the number of times they had made love since getting married, Ryan wasn't shy, and he knew exactly what round they were currently on – lucky number nineteen. After dropping J off at Margie's (Rob had graciously offered to keep the little boy so that the newlyweds could continue their honeymoon for at least one more night, they had returned to Marissa's, the house they had decided upon making their home, to spend another glorious evening in bed, and, if he had anything to say about it, they would be doing little sleeping. Unlike some men, the knowledge that he was married only seemed to increase the young father's desire for his wife, and, although Ryan was unsure why he was so lucky to feel that way, he was going to enjoy his newfound sense of sexual and emotional satisfaction for as long as it lasted.

Much to Margie's dismay, they had left the party before midnight, opting to be at home to share their first kiss of the New Year and away from prying eyes. Normally, he enjoyed the annual bashes, but, as he watched the black silk of his wife's dress flutter rhythmically to the hardwood floor of their bedroom, he was perfectly content, in that moment, to never go to another party again for the rest of his life.

She stood there before him beautifully innocent despite her barely there and utterly hypnotic lingerie. With a simple, unadorned, lace up black corset and matching thong, garter belt, dark hose, and heels that sent erotic, indecent fantasies immediately to his mind and all his blood south to his already aroused form, she was, simply stated, his every desire actualized. A small, almost shy smile illuminated her gorgeous face, and Ryan knew that, despite his many declarations of love and sheer inability to remove his eyes from her face and body whenever they were in the same room, she was still tentative when it came to taking control while they were making love and seemed almost doubtful of her effect upon him. The good thing was that they would be able to eradicate her uncertainties with constant attention and practice.

"Come here," he whispered huskily to her, crooking his finger and inviting her to join him by their bed. After erotically removing her shoes, she moved eagerly as if drawn to him. "Do you know how hard it was for me not to touch you tonight," Ryan confessed, reaching his own hands up to unbutton his shirt, never once breaking their intense eye contact. "Not being able to tell the world that you're mine and that I'm yours is going to kill me."

"It won't kill you," his wife corrected him with an adorably cheeky smile. "It might hurt and it cause you pain, but, as soon as we're alone, I promise to make it feel all better."

"And how are you going to that?"

"Like this," Marissa responded, pushing his dress shirt off his broad shoulders and, without watching or waiting for it to fall, immediately lowered her mouth to drop wet, hot, intoxicating kisses upon his sculpted chest. While she continued to rain her assault upon his blissfully overwhelmed senses, he finished undressing himself, letting his pants and boxer-briefs descend to the floor.

Her lips felt amazing on his skin, but he wanted her closer. Without any warning, he stepped backwards, separating them briefly to collapse onto the bed, snaking an arm around her tiny waist and twirling her around to sit on his lap, her back firmly pressed up against his abdomen. "Much better," he declared, smiling at the sound of her gasp that filled the room as soon as she felt how much she had stirred him. Letting his own lips find the exposed skin of her neck, he sucked on the delicate flesh, marking her as his own. At the same time, his hands wandered to the laces of her lingerie, untying them so slowly, she never noticed what he was doing.

"I want to hold you like this while I make love you to," he confessed, dropping the unbound material of her corset to the floor. Marissa merely nodded in acceptance, acknowledgement, acquiescence. "Lift your left leg for me, baby," he persuaded her, running his fingers lightly down her side, passed her hips, and to the point where they met the silk of her stockings. When she complied, he slid the sheer material down her silky smooth, lithe leg, glorying in the feeling of her skin underneath his calloused digits. He could get drunk off simply touching her. "Now the right," Ryan practically pleaded, needing her to be naked as soon as possible.

Once her hose were removed, she remained in nothing but her fragile thong and garter belts, and, with just a slight bit of coaxing, his hips pushing up into hers, she lifted her round, firm derrière off his lap and allowed him to strip off her last vestige of her modesty, baring herself to him both physically and emotionally. As she came back down to sit upon him, he positioned himself to enter her, and, in a fluid, seamless motion, they were joined as one. She felt like ecstasy.

Their vulnerable, naked forms moved as one with a gracefulness only the most intimate of lovers can achieve, rocking their bodies in unison and climbing ever higher as each wave of rapture crashing over them progressed. With his arms wrapped around her, Ryan cradled her right breast in his left hand, caressing it, massaging it, possessing it, and let the fingers of his right slip between her parted, glistening legs to touch her very essence and to manipulate her bead of passion. His lips, once again, found their way to her velvety skin as they danced across her jaw, down her shoulders, and over her regal neck and back.

"If I could, I would stay in this moment forever," Ryan confessed, nudging his wife's ear and licking the pulse point below it. "Just you and me always connected this intimately for the rest of our lives."

He could feel the change his words invoked in her supple, well loved body. She became relaxed, melted into him, and, finally, gave into the passion they were sharing with one another and found her release, triggering his as they fell off a precipice of pleasure together. Physically exhausted and, suddenly, finding that he needed to hold his wife even closer, Ryan gently slowed the pace of their still moving bodies until they both simply stilled and embraced the other. Still connected, he pulled her down to lay beside him on their bed, wrapping his arms around her torso and his legs through hers.

After several leisurely and quiet moments, their breathing settled into a normal pace, and he nuzzled her neck delicately, placing a single kiss on her nape. "I've been thinking about something a lot lately," he confessed, his voice still deep and rough with the final reminder of the devastating orgasm he had just experienced.

"Hm," Marissa sighed, perfectly content and already drifting off to sleep.

"What do you think about children?"

Before Ryan could take back his question or explain, he felt her become rigid in his arms, separate their bodies, and pull away from him. "You have a healthy son, a namesake. You should be happy with that."

Ignoring the warning signals firing at rapid pace inside his mind, he pressed. "But don't you want to experience having a baby together as a couple?"

"I don't want children," his wife announced, her tone firm, unyielding, and suddenly hollow. "End of discussion. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's some work I need to do."

"Marissa," he argued, sitting up and moving to chase after her, "wait, we need to talk about this. You can't just walk away."

But she did, and, despondently, Ryan climbed out of bed, put his clothes back on, and, without a word to the woman he had made his bride eight days earlier, left.

As he walked up to and entered _Wired_ an hour, eleven minutes, and exactly forty-three seconds after his wife had turned away form him and decreed with finality that they would not have any children, Ryan knew that it was well past midnight and that most of the party-goers had gone home. Those who remained were Margie, her husband, and their closest friends and family members. Even though he knew his good friend would not be in sound enough mind or body to offer him advice, for some reason, he found himself going to the café/bar anyway, simply wanting the company of kind, warm people who had seen him through some of the hardest times in his life.

"We're clossss….closssseee, we're not open," he heard Margie announce as he pushed open the door and entered the neighborhood establishment. When he didn't leave immediately, she turned around. "Oh," the older woman was surprised. "It's you. I thought you went home to shag your wife."

"Shag?"

"What can I say," the brunette shrugged in admission, "I like guys with accents, so I watch a lot of British movies. You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

The mother of three who was astonishingly still on her feet and functioning sat at her trusty bar mixing even more drinks to take into the back where there was an intense and hilarious poker game occurring. Because he had become a father at such a young age, Ryan had never experienced the true sense of underage partying or college drunkenness, but even he recognized several of the drinks she was making. There were daiquiris, martinis, margaritas, screw drivers, Long Island iced teas, cosmopolitans, sex on the beach, and various bottles of beer, hard liquor, and champagne. There was no way he would be able to stay there and play cards with them without getting drunk; he could tell that Margie simply wouldn't allow it.

Taking a deep breath, Ryan spoke slowly. "Marissa and I, we…had a difference of opinions."

"You fought?"

"Not really." The landscaper wrinkled his brow in uncertainty. "It was…I just said something, she disagreed with me, and then she walked away. End of story."

Stopping with her bartending duties, Margie met his gaze. "What was this all about though?"

Ryan shrugged, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and mumbled. "She doesn't want to have any children together."

"And I take it by your sad kicked puppy dog routine, you do?" His silence was the only answer the older woman needed. "You know, this might a crazy idea, but don't you think this should have been something you talked about BEFORE you got married?"

"I just assumed…," he paused, realizing what he had just said, "and, before you saying anything, I know – you, me, ass."

"No thank you," Margie quipped, impressing him that she could still make jokes despite being completely sloshed.

"Do you have any advice for me?"

"Advice on how to make your wife talk to you or how to get your wife to want to have children," she questioned him.

"The latter," the blonde requested. "She'll talk to me again. It's not as if she's mad – just scared, I think."

"So you want me to give you a guide on how you can convince Marissa to let you knock her up? I'm sorry," the mother of three apologized, "but I can't do that. Just like guys have a code, so do women, and that goes against every rule in ours. However, I'll tell you this much, you should talk to my husband."

"How can Rob help me with this?"

"He knows the secrets," the businesswoman confessed. "In fact, he invented something called Margie's Model to Motherhood. Help me carry these pitchers of drinks to the back," she negotiated with him, "and I'll convince Rob to let me play a round or two of his cards while he talks to you."

The doubt Ryan was feeling was evident in his voice as he asked, "are you sure about this?"

The brunette laughed. "What do you have to lose at this point?"

Five minutes later, he found himself standing in a dark, smoke filled corner of the back room of _Wired_ talking in hushed, private tones with Rob Miller, a man Ryan had known for years, had always liked and gotten along with, but had never been relatively close to.

"At least Marissa wasn't afraid of marriage, too," the older man chuckled, casting a quick glance at his wife who was, amazingly, winning her hand of poker with his cards. "Margie absolutely refused my proposals three times, but, after the final rejection, I took matters into my own hands."

"What did you do?"

"I got her pregnant," he confessed proudly. "I knew she'd marry me if we were going to have a baby together."

"Yeah, but Marissa and I are already married," Ryan argued. "How is this going to help me?"

"Do you think that Margie wanted to get pregnant," Rob continued. "If she didn't want to marry me, she flat out snubbed me whenever I brought up kids at that point, so I did what any desperate man would do. I poked holes in our condoms."

The younger man blinked rapidly several times in an attempt to take in the information. "You what?"

"I poked holes in our condoms," Rob repeated. "And look at us now – happily married with three kids."

"I couldn't do that to Marissa."

"Suit yourself, but it would work."

"Yeah, and I would end up divorced," the blonde contended.

"I don't know, man," Rob maintained. "All I know is that the model is full proof. If you need any more help, let me know, but, for now," he motioned towards the poker table, "let's have some fun and take your mind off it. Margie," he called out to his wife, "pour Ryan a drink."

As he sat down at the table with a dozen adults he knew to varying degrees, the newlywed found himself thinking long and hard about the advice Rob had given him. Margie's Model to Motherhood – it would work, but could he do that to his wife?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Marissa Cooper Atwood was on a mission. It would take several steps to accomplish her goal – some easier than others – but, by the end of the day, she was determined to have proven to her stubborn husband that having children was not just a crazy idea but also a terrible one. However, before she could start making her case, she had to first wake him up which was a colossal feat in and of itself. Despite disagreeing with him the night before and walking out of their bedroom before he could offer his own opinion on the whole 'let's make a baby' proposal he had thrown at her straight out of left field, she had waited up for him and knew that he had not stumbled in until well past five in the morning, barely making it to the couch where he had drunkenly collapsed in his dress clothes without so much as a pillow to alleviate the awkward position his neck had been flung into when he landed in an uncoordinated heap upon the sofa. Now, as she stood beside him, it was ten a.m. and they needed to be in Newport by one, at the latest. Three hours to both get ready and drive there under normal circumstances would have been plenty of time, but the day after New Years Eve was anything but normal in the newly combined Cooper-Atwood household.

"Ryan," she said tentatively, bending down to sit on her knees beside her husband's misaligned head, voice low and gentle. This was new ground for them; she had never seen him drunk before, so the newlywed had little idea how to proceed with waking the loudly snoring man in front of her. Was he a funny drunk or a mean one? Did he suffer from hangovers, or was he one of those annoying people who could drink like a fish, sleep a few hours, and then function again as if nothing had happened? "Ryan, honey, you need to get up."

Zero reaction – nil, zilch, nada.

If nothing else, Marissa now knew that her husband slept more soundly after drinking. Usually, her voice whispering quietly in his ear was enough to rouse the young father from a deep slumber, but, apparently, she was going to have to work a little harder that morning if they were going to be at her parents' in time for lunch. No matter what was happening at the Cooper household, lunch was always served at one in the afternoon on the dot – no exceptions.

Raising her voice, she tried again, this time discreetly shaking his shoulder while she said his name. "Ryan, if we're going to make it in time, you have to get up now. You need to shower, get dressed, drink about a gallon of coffee, and then we have to pick up J."

The golf course manager mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, scratched his stomach contentedly, and rolled over so that he was facing away from her.

Frustrated, she climbed to her feet and spoke loudly. "Fine, if you want to play it that way, we will, but I'm warning you, Ryan, I'll play dirty if I have to in order to get what I want, and I what I want is you up, showered, and presentable in," the teacher glanced at her watch, "approximately forty minutes."

Returning to the living room three minutes later, she held a cup of strongly brewed coffee in her left hand and waved it enticingly under her husband's nose. "I know that smells good," Marissa stated, "good enough to wake up, right?" When all he did was wave her away and reach out to pull the blanket on the back of the couch down on top of him, she continued. "You only get the coffee if you sit up, Ryan."

His response was one word: "sleep."

Well, not if she had anything to say about it. Giving up on the java idea, the young newlywed put aside the mug of instant morning energy and moved towards the drawn curtains. Flinging them open, she smiled smugly when she noticed a bright, rousing beam of light fall directly upon her husband's face. Unless he pulled the blanket entirely over his head, he wouldn't be able to hide from the morning sun. Surely, after that, he wouldn't persist on sleeping away the first day of the New Year.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what he did.

Stomping her foot impatiently, Marissa glared at her husband. So he was that type of drunk: mulish and utterly maddening. However, she hadn't been born Julie Cooper's daughter to not inherit some of her mother's more tenacious qualities. If Ryan wanted to be stubborn, she would show him exactly what the word and several others meant.

"You know, many people find listening to the news in the morning to be invigorating," the blonde haired, blue eyed beauty mused to herself loudly, knowing that her voice was penetrating the bubble of oblivion her husband was trying to exist inside, "but, for me, music has always been more stimulating. Let me see, let me see," she spoke to herself while glancing through their CD collection. "What should I put on this morning?" After several quiet seconds during which Ryan, undoubtedly, prayed for her to either get sidetracked by something else or to stumble upon an Enya record she had completely forgotten about, the young wife spotted the very thing she needed.

"Oh this will be perfect," she beamed despite knowing her significant other could not see her ecstatic and slightly devious grin because his pale and hung-over face was buried underneath a suffocating pile of fleece blanket and leather cushion. "Margie burned me this CD a couple of weeks ago, claiming it would change my life forever after just one listen, but I was a little hesitant to give it a go." She paused momentarily for effect. "Okay, so, if we're going to be completely honest, I was petrified of it, but who wouldn't be if the name of the musical artist made you think of those annoying, rabid hamster like toys that were popular a few years ago? What were they called again, Ferbies? Anyway," Marissa announced as she slid the CD into the player, "how bad could someone named Fergie be? There's that member of the British royalty that goes by that name, the one who's always struggled with her weight and was once a spokesperson for some fad diet or something or other. She was…," her voice bottomed out, losing its enthusiastic nature and becoming quite flat with uncertainty, "rather perky in her own way and…unusual?"

"I'm up, I'm up," Ryan practically screamed as he jumped off the couch and flung the blanket he had been hiding under away. The strains of the first track had just started to burst forth from the surround sound speakers at an alarmingly shrill level. "I'll do whatever the hell you want me to do – dye my hair pink, wear healed boots when we go out so you can wear any shoes you want, eat only organic foods and give up even steak forever – just, please, do not play that CD."

"I can do that," Marissa agreed, already turning off the sound system. "Why don't we forget your offers though, because I'm willing to settle with you just getting a shower and changing your clothes?"

"Right," the twenty-four year old father complied readily. Just as he was about to round the corner of the stairs that would take him to the bathroom, he turned back around and looked down upon his wife. "Oh, and just one more thing…"

Teasingly, she stated, "don't push your luck. I'm keeping this CD for future emergency situations."

"I can understand that reasoning, especially seeing how well this particular battle of wills ended up, but would you do me a favor and never accept another burned disk from Margie again? This isn't just about me either." Grinning to show he was just joking, the hung-over blonde continued. "J's still quite impressionable. We wouldn't want him to find one of her CD's, listen to them, and actually like what he hears."

"Good point," she conceded, "and I'll keep it in mind for the future." He went to move away again, but, this time, Marissa stopped him. "Just as a suggestion, why don't you wear that blue dress shirt I picked up for you a couple of weeks ago?"

"Why?"

"No particular reason," she hedged, averting her gaze away from his questioning one. "It just bring out your eyes."

"Anything else?"

"You could try the shirt with those new jeans I got you for Christmas," she recommended nonchalantly as if it really didn't matter to her what he wore.

"What," Ryan inquired, "those really expensive ones that I said we should take back and use the money to start J's college fund instead?"

"Yeah, those ones."

The groundskeeper regarded his wife closely but didn't say anything. By his silence alone, Marissa could tell that he knew she was up to something. "Should I wear a certain pair of shoes, fix my hair way a special way,…"

Well, if she had already gone this far, the third grade teacher reasoned with herself, she might as well go all the way. "Yes. Go with your new tennis shoes, let your hair dry naturally wild, – do not use any product, and I'm serious about that, Ryan, nothing, no gel, no hairspray, no mouse – and bring along those sunglasses we bought for our trip to Mexico. You look good in those, they'll help you with your post-hangover headache, and they should serve us well by disguising your blood shot eyes."

Ryan stared at her, practically grimacing. "Why do I get the feeling today is going to be a day from hell?"

"It'll be fine." She smiled awkwardly, rigidly, practically mournfully, but the gesture did nothing to reassure either of them. "Don't worry."

With that, she twirled around on her expensive, designer stilettos, shoes she only wore to confront her mother, and made her way to the dining room where, on the table, she had several outfits spread out as options for Joaquin to wear that afternoon for lunch and meeting her family. She studied them, picked them apart, and scrutinized even the minutest of details, only finally deciding upon a pair of long, khaki shorts, a fitted, white, long sleeved t-shirt, and sandals after remembering her mother's fondness for unbelievably tan skin. Julie would love Joaquin's dark complexion, dark hair, and, what she would term, movie star quality blue eyes.

It wasn't as if she was trying to impress her mother, but she knew that no one should meet Julie Cooper and not look their best if they wanted to come out unscathed. So, with that thought in mind, she was literally dressing her husband and stepson so that they would blend into Newport Beach, so that they would appear as if they were from her hometown and not from Chino, so that they would meet her mom's standard of designer casual. Yes, she was taking them home so that her family could, without doing anything but behaving as themselves, convince Ryan that perpetuating the Cooper line was a disaster waiting to happen. She was already lucky to have escaped the curse of slight insanity that seemed to hang over top of her family's history, but it would be naïve to think that she had not taken after her own mother who was rather lacking when it came to maternal instincts. One afternoon in Julie's presence, she figured, would be plenty of time for Ryan to come to this realization on his own, and then they would be able to go back to being the happily newlywed couple they had been two days before.

An hour and a half later after arriving at Margie's to find the Miller household in sheer chaos, their friend had been placated with a hangover remedy that had been passed down to Marissa years before by her father after she had indulged in one too many Newport Beach Iced Teas at a family luau (a slice of plain white bread, a cold beer, two extra-strength ibuprofen, and then, alternately, a glass of water and a cup of coffee for an hour after waking), J had showered and changed, and the three of them were on their way, driving west-south-west according to the digital display in her rarely used and often disguised Bentley convertible, a car she had gotten from her father – a man who subsisted on a very generous allowance from his wife – as a college graduation present. It was hidden under so many layers of junk in her garage that Ryan and Joaquin had known nothing about the car before she had insisted upon driving it that afternoon.

To go along with her luxury sports car, she wore one of her most expensive outfits, no doubt something her mother had picked out for her on one of their disastrous mother-daughter shopping extravaganzas that were designed to help them bond, her long, blonde hair was pulled back to hide the fact that she had neglected to keep up with the monthly highlight appointments Julie had made for her well in advance of her coming back to Southern California after graduating from Arizona State, and her expression was a studied one of compliance and submission, the two things she would have to be to initially get into the Cooper residence after basically ignoring them since she had moved to Chino. She not only hated the way she looked, but she also felt like a fake, something she despised, but, in order to accomplish her goal of proving to Ryan that a baby was the last thing they should ever contemplate having together, she had to get through one day in the world she had promised herself years before that she had left behind forever.

"Are you going to tell us where we're going," her new husband interrupted her thoughts, "or are you going to make us wait and see?" The teacher could hear the worry in his voice, the hesitation, the skepticism, and she didn't like that she was doing that to him, but, after all, the suffering was worth it when considering the good one afternoon of pain on their parts would generate.

"We're going to visit a living nightmare," Marissa answered, refusing to meet either of the Atwood boys' gazes. "I'm taking you to meet my family."

"Marissa," Joaquin whispered as he simultaneously reached a small hand out to clasp hers in an effort to both reassure himself and to get her attention. He nodded towards the stately older man they were following down a long, wide, marble passage. "What is he?"

"Winfield?" The eight year old nodded his head yes. "He's our…well, my parents' butler."

Her stepson's eyes got wide with astonishment. "Really?"

"Really, really. In fact," the teacher laughed softly, winking at the little boy in a conspiratorial way. "He's even from London where he went to butler school, though he likes to pretend that he's French."

"So this is your parents' house – the whole thing?"

"Yep."

"And do they have other servants," J asked.

"They have a live-in maid, a gardener who comes daily to work on the grounds, a pool boy, and a chef, but don't say anything about the chef to my Mom," Marissa warned the child, "because she likes to pretend that she does all the cooking herself."

He nodded sagely, absorbing every word she said, and the four of them, Winfield included, fell silent once again. The newly married woman knew that her stepson was not the only one surprised by the grandeur of her family's home. Although she had warned Ryan and told him stories about her childhood, she had to stifle a laugh at the thought of his face when the front door was swung open and the imposing, 6'1'' butler complete with a tux and tails addressed her, in a surprised tone, as Mademoiselle Marissa. In fact, it would be difficult for her to decide just who had been more startled by the entire interaction that had taken place in the foyer – Ryan or Winfield. However, her musing was interrupted by the grating, one of a kind sound of her mother's condescending, mock-aristocratic voice.

"Winnie," – it was the nickname the Cooper matriarch continued to use in reference to the family butler despite the fact that she knew he hated it with a passion. "Who is it?"

"It's Mademoiselle Marissa, and she has brought two guests with her."

"This is certainly a surprise," Julie purred, standing up from the patio table she had been sitting at while browsing through a magazine only to wait regally for her daughter to approach her. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I have some news," the teacher shared, making her Mom quirk her brow in curiosity.

"Well, at least you remembered that lunch is served exactly at one. Sit," she instructed all three of them. "Your father will be down in a moment. I sent him upstairs to change. Can you imagine," the redhead continued, undaunted by the fact that she still had not allowed her daughter a chance to offer introductions, "coming to the table with your golf clothes still on. It's mind-boggling how uncouth that man can be sometimes."

As the three of them moved to sit as they had been instructed, Marissa tried to speak. "Mom, I'd like you to meet…"

"Let's worry about the introductions when everyone is here, darling. There's no sense in going through the hassle when your father, sister, and your sister's fiancé aren't here yet. Don't slouch, Marissa," Julie admonished her, immediately reaching a hand out to forcefully push her daughter's back into place. "And how many times do I have to tell you that you don't lean all the way back against the chair. Obviously, those etiquette classes I paid for were useless. You're still as unsophisticated as you were when you were a child."

"I really don't think my posture at the table is that important when we're merely in the company of friends and family."

"Sweetheart," the older Cooper woman chastised her daughter, "do not forget how important is to present a dignified image to the help. You do not want them to feel as if they are in anyway your equals and capable of engaging you in conversation. It's best to keep them dispirited; it helps with their work ethic. Besides," she added, "I will not have you embarrassing me in front of..."

"What's she done wrong now, Julie," her father asked as he joined them, plopping down, unceremoniously, in the chair directly across from his wife. Marissa wasn't sure if it was because of habit, because her mother deemed it proper, or because he wanted to be as far away from the coifed pariah as possible.

"For bloody Christ's sake, James," the businesswoman ranted, glaring at her henpecked spouse. "How many times do I have to tell you to never interrupt me?"

"Quit giving yourself airs, Jules," the patriarch of their family directed. "We haven't seen our daughter in months. Can't you at least pretend to be glad she's here? And look," he gestured towards Ryan and Joaquin who, with wide, timid eyes, were both watching the family dynamics being put on display in front of them, "we have company. Kiddo, care to introduce your old man?"

"We are waiting for Caitlyn to get here before she introduces us to her…acquaintances."

Marissa knew that her mother referring to her husband and stepson as acquaintances was a sign of the older woman's displeasure with them. Although they had done absolutely nothing to Julie, the eldest Cooper woman was that hard to please. "So who is Caity's fiancé? Do I know him?"

"Oh, he's some horrid boy she picked up at a nightclub, if you can believe that," the redhead answered, shuddering in displeasure. "Fortunately, he's at least from a respected family, but their investment portfolios do not nearly measure up to ours, and, to be quite frank, she's marrying beneath her."

Strike two, Marissa thought to herself. There was no way they were going to escape the afternoon unscathed by Julie Cooper's razor sharp claws and pointed tongue now that it was already engaged. "Does he have a name, mother?"

"It's Luke something or other."

"Luke Ward," Jimmy filled in for his wife. "In fact, if I remember correctly, he graduated from high school with you, kiddo."

"His name does sound familiar," Marissa agreed. "Was he the one with the father who came out of the closet my sophomore year of college, shocking the entire community?"

"Don't remind me," the older woman begged, blanching at the very idea that her future son-in-law's father was a homosexual.

"Oh come on, Jules," her dad teased. "I thought it was trendy to have at least one gay member of the family."

The redhead snapped, "that's not funny, James."

"What's not funny, Mom," Caitlyn asked, skipping down the back steps and coming up to their mother's side to kiss her botox rejuvenated cheek.

"Nothing, dear. Where's Luke?"

"It's Saturday, he's playing water polo," Marissa heard her younger sister respond. "You know that."

"Of course, he doesn't have a job yet, but he still makes time for recreational activities."

"Don't start," the younger Cooper daughter snapped, glaring at her mother for a moment before turning and plastering a fake smile on her face while she regarded her sister. "Who's your friend with the brat, Marissa?"

"This is Ryan and Joaquin," the teacher introduced her husband and stepson, "but Ryan's not my friend, and Joaquin is not a brat, Caity."

"I knew it," Julie announced, standing up and ringing a bell for Winfield. "He's an agent, isn't he? You said you had news, but I didn't want to hope. I've told you for years that you could model. Yes," the older woman sighed dramatically, "you're not as tall as the designers would like, but you don't have to do runway modeling. However," she frowned when taking a closer look at her older daughter, "you're not in that good of shape for just landing a modeling contract. You've obviously let yourself go. Your waist," she exclaimed while pinching Marissa's midsection, "could be defined more, and don't get me started on your thighs, young lady. Lunges - how many times have I told you to do them every morning after you wake up and every night before you go to sleep?"

"I'm not her agent," Ryan spoke up for the first time. By the sheer look of anger on her husband's face, Marissa knew things were going to get ugly quickly if she did not somehow diffuse the situation before it had a chance to ignite.

"Mom, I want you to listen to me carefully," she told the older woman. "First of all, there is no modeling contract, so calm down. There's nothing to get excited about." She waited for the businesswoman to sit back down, visibly watching her deflate before continuing. "Secondly, Ryan is my husband. We were married two days before Christmas. And finally," she motioned towards Joaquin who was, for all intents and purposes, attempting to disappear underneath the tablecloth, "J is Ryan's son, my stepson. Before you ask," she pressed on, knowing what the Cooper matriarch would say if given the chance, "we were married in Mexico while on vacation. It was a private ceremony with just the three of us, the hotel's manager, and a judge. No, I'm not pregnant, so do not even mention the word shotgun in my presence. We're living in the house I'm remodeling in Chino, and, no, you can't buy us what you would call a starter home here in Newport, because we're quite happy where we're at. Joaquin is eight years old, he's in my third grade class, and he's a brilliant little boy, and Ryan runs the local country club's golf course." Taking a deep breath, she nodded her head once, the gesture effectively giving her mother a chance to talk.

"So you own a golf course," Julie gushed, applying a fake smile to her face. "How lovely."

"He doesn't own it, Mom," Marissa corrected. "He runs it – as in manages."

The fake smile disappeared as quickly as it had been applied. "At least tell you have a degree in something – landscape architecture, perhaps? I've heard that's a growing field, and, with my help, I'm sure you could build up a respectable practice here in Newport."

"It was kind of hard to go to college when I had a son to support, Mrs. Cooper."

Marissa winced when her mother didn't correct him and insist that he call her either Julie or mom. "So I take it you're not older than you appear. I had presumed that you were one of the lucky ones who aged gracefully."

"I'm twenty-four," the newlywed heard her husband retort.

"James, call our lawyer," Julie instructed her husband without sparing her eldest daughter, her son-in-law, or her new grandson a second's glance. "We need to know what all our options as soon as possible. Caitlyn," she turned towards her youngest child, "I don't care what the rule books say about truth and honesty in a relationship. If Luke even hears an inkling about this crazy idea, I want you to outright lie to him and deny that your sister is married. If you don't do as I say, I'll refuse to pay for your wedding. And I thought your fiancé was unacceptable…" Without stopping to breathe, Julie continued to bark orders. "Winnie," she called out for the butler. "Bring me whatever has the strongest proof from the liquor cabinet, and don't bother with a glass or ice. Right now, I don't have the patience."

"Yes, Madam," the beleaguered servant agreed before disappearing back into the house.

With a very pointed expression, Marissa regarded her husband. _And this_, she said with her cold eyes and pursed lips, _is exactly why we will not be having children. _Message sent, delivered, and received.

Silence.

For twenty five solid minutes, the three of them had solely existed in silence, and, with the top up on the convertible, that made for a very quiet ride home. Marissa had expected conversation; what she got from her husband and stepson was silence. She had expected perhaps some questions; again, the only thing she was given was silence. In the back of her mind, she had been prepared for anger and even hurt after subjecting her new family to the harsh treatment of her old one; however, there was nothing but silence. In fact, since the moment they had stepped foot in the car, Ryan had refused to look at her, and J had buried himself so deeply in a book, Marissa was concerned that the eight year old little boy wouldn't come out of the fairytale land the novel provided him with for days to come. Apparently, it was going to be her responsibility to establish some form of communication between the three of them.

"Now do you understand why I refuse to have children?"

Glancing sideways, she could tell that her husband was thinking very carefully about how he wanted to respond to her question. After several moments, he finally replied. "Actually, no, I don't. So what, your mom is a terrible, heartless person, your parents' marriage is a mess, and your sister is so hopped up on drugs, she doesn't even realize half the time what she's agreeing to when she lets your mom have her own way. What does that have to do with us?"

Flabbergasted, the third grade teacher exclaimed, "it has everything to do with us!"

"I disagree."

"Come on, Ryan, think about it. I wasn't close to either of my grandmothers, which means that the only maternal influence I've had in my life has been from Julie Cooper – businesswoman, ball breaker, bitch extraordinaire. Trust me," she promised him, "there is not a softer side to that woman you just met back there. That's how she was the entire time I was growing up – judgmental, cruel, unsupportive, arrogant, pretentious, insensitive. Basically, she was everything you don't want your mother to be."

"So, let me get this straight," Ryan started, speaking slowly and absorbing her words before continuing. "What you're saying is that basically we all become our parents, that they make us the mother or father that we become when we have children of our own?"

"Exactly."

"That's bullshit, Marissa," her husband exclaimed, pounding the dashboard for emphasis. "If that were true, I'd treat J the same way my dad treated me, and let me assure you that I don't. I am nothing like my father, just like you would be nothing like your mother."

"You don't know that," she persisted to argue. "I didn't have a role model growing up. No one has ever showed me how a woman is supposed to love a child, how a woman is supposed to take care of a child, how a woman is supposed to protect a child. All I know how to do from watching my parents is to discourage, put down, and insult, if I follow my mom's example, and placate and spoil, if I follow my dad's. I refuse to be the type of parent they were to me to my own child."

"You're not listening to me," the groundskeeper maintained his stance. "If I didn't end up like my parents, you won't necessarily end up like yours."

"But you had Theresa's mom to show you how to love a child," she pointed out. "I had no one."

"Loving someone, no matter what their age, is not something you're taught or shown," Ryan stated confidently. "It's a natural feeling. Look at how you are with your students. Marissa, you're an amazing teacher."

"That's my job," she dismissed. "It's easy to care about a little boy or a little girl, but it's a whole different matter to take care of one."

"But you take care of J."

"J's already eight years old. His formidable years are already over, Ryan. You've raised him, nurtured him, molded him into the young man he'll soon become. I'm just his friend and someone who make sure he's physically safe when you're not there. My inability to be someone's mother won't adversely affect him."

With a quiet voice, her husband responded, "but you are his stepmom, and, because Theresa left, you're the closest thing my son is ever going to have to a real mother. It's obvious that you love him, that you want what's best for him, that you would do anything to make sure he has the best life possible, so why can't you do that for a child that we make together? If it's more the pregnancy part that you're afraid of, I'm open to the idea of adoption."

"Just stop it," Marissa snapped, glancing away from the road to glare at her significant other. "I told you already that I won't have a baby, and now I've shown you why. What don't you understand about this? Why can't you just accept my decision?"

"Because you're wrong."

"You are not the judge of what is right and wrong for me," the twenty-four year old woman stated, raising her voice slightly. Though her tone was still soft enough to be considered polite, it was cold and inflexible. "So I would appreciate it if you would quit trying to make my decisions for me right now, because, if you don't, we have an even bigger problem on our hands than a difference of…"

"Stop it," Joaquin screamed, startling both of them. Casting a momentary look in her rearview mirror, she could see that he was very upset and close to tears. "You're not supposed to fight!"

"J, sometimes couples disagree," Ryan attempted to pacify him. "Whether you like it or not, Marissa and I will occasionally argue."

"No, Dad," the eight year old pleaded, "you can't. If she doesn't want to have a baby, then don't push her to have one, please."

"I thought you wanted a little brother or sister someday," the older of the two men in her life asked his son.

"I do but not if it means Marissa will leave."

"Leave," she spoke up. "Where am I going?"

"My Mom and Dad used to fight all the time, and they didn't even live together. You guys are married," the child reminded them. Turning his beseeching gaze upon his father, he continued, "if you argue with her, she'll go away…just like my Mom did."

"Oh, Joaquin," Ryan sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing the side of his face. "That's not…"

His words ended abruptly, for she surprised him by immediately pulling over the car and putting it into park. Unbuckling her seatbelt, Marissa twisted around to lock her deep, sapphire eyes with the lighter blue of her stepson's. "J, no matter what happens, I'm not leaving you. Your Dad and I, we're going to fight. We're both stubborn adults who have been on our own for too long to not be stuck in our ways, but, no matter what we say or do when we have a disagreement, nothing will change the fact that we love each other and you. It doesn't matter what happens, baby or no baby, at this point, you're stuck with me; I'm not going anywhere. Do you trust me enough to believe that, to believe that I won't leave you? I'm not your Mom, J; I'm not Theresa. I won't walk away from my life, especially the two best things, you and your dad, that have ever happened to it."

"Okay," the little boy agreed, shooting himself out of his seat to wrap his tiny, eight year old arms around her neck in a tight, almost desperate hug.

"Okay," she repeated, sharing an understanding glance with Ryan who was still sitting across from her, slightly shaken by the negative reaction his son had had to a simple, although slightly heated, discussion. The look they shared said everything they both needed to know. For now, they would forget about the idea of having a baby and, instead, focus upon the son they already had. Before anything else could be decided, Joaquin needed to feel secure enough in his life and their marriage to not panic every time they disagreed. Until then, they would call a truce and table the idea of another child, but the peace would not last forever, and, once it ended, they would be forced to make a decision, a decision one of them might not so easily be able to live with.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Just as a reminder, I wanted to tell you that this is the last chapter of this story. Soon, a new fic will replace it. I'm hoping to have the first chapter of his new story up by the end of the weekend. If you all remember the options offered a couple of weeks ago, this new fic is the second one. Thanks and enjoy this final chapter!_

Charlynn

Chapter Ten

Everything in her life was upside down, backwards, and disorganized, and, for the first time in Marissa's adult life, she knew what it was like to truly live and enjoy every moment of every day. They had been back in school a week since winter break had ended, but, unlike her usual behavior, she had let her work slide. There were piles of ungraded papers placed haphazardly around her desk; at any moment, with just a few more tests, any one of the heaps could go crashing to the ground, but she didn't care. Improvements on the house had come to a screeching halt. Instead of putting it on the market like she wanted to after the first of the year, she still had two spare bedrooms to refinish, one bathroom to completely gut and rebuild, and the exterior to paint and re-shingle. At her current pace, she would be lucky if the house was finished before the end of the school year. However, despite not getting anything productive accomplished, she knew that she wouldn't change a single aspect about her life.

She and Ryan were focusing upon their family and letting everything else in their lives fall to the wayside. They spent all their free time with J in an attempt to reassure the eight year old that nothing was going to split the three of them up, and, in the few spare moments they had free to spend alone with each other, they were enjoying the pleasures of being newly married. Yes, they still had issues – or rather one large one that came in the tiny shape of a potential baby – to work their way through, but, generally, they were happy together.

It was Friday afternoon, her students were at recess, and she was sitting at her desk staring into space while contemplating the various arguments for and against having a child with her husband. She knew that the words he said made sense, that they were logical, but, despite their rational nature, they still could not convince her to embrace the idea of motherhood. Sure, she was a good teacher and her students liked her, but she doubted her ability to raise and guide an infant into a healthy, content, and functioning adult. Taking care of Joaquin was one thing because he already had a mother as dysfunctional and unreliable as Theresa was, but the little boy did not consider her as his parent, so there was no way he had opened his heart enough to let her in deep enough to hurt him the way her own mom had hurt her.

"Miss Cooper," Dorothy, the school's secretary's voice suddenly filled the room, surrounding her. Marissa could tell by just those two words that the older woman was feeling put out at having to page her. "You need to report to the playground immediately. There's something wrong with one of your students."

She didn't need to hear another word. Without a second's thought, Marissa bolted from the classroom, running down the halls as fast as her long, lithe limbs could carry her. She hit the pavement, still sprinting, unaware of the fact that she had left her hastily discarded heels underneath her desk and not feeling the pain of a hundred tiny rocks piercing the soles of her feet. With hair streaming behind her, clothes rumbled and askew from hours of sitting, standing, and bending over students' desks to help them, she looked like the epitome of a distracted teacher, but, in her mind, there was only one thought and that was to reach the side of her injured student as quickly as possible.

There was a small crowd of adults gathered around what she assumed was the hurt little boy or girl, and curious students were starting to converge around the group, eager to witness what was wrong with one of their classmates. Various, concerned voices spoke at once, their confusion and inability to make a decision making it obvious to Marissa that a level head was needed to help the situation. Finally, out of the throng of questions and comments, one voice and its words stood out and she was able to hear what the person said.

"You need to calm down. We can't understand what you're saying." It was Mrs. Tate, the phys-ed teacher. "Now, take a deep breath and repeat what you just said."

The crowd became hush, but, from her position still several long strides away from them, she couldn't hear what the injured student said.

"Your Mom," the same teacher questioned. Marissa could hear the surprise in the other woman's voice. "But she left years ago. What about your Dad though? I'm sure we'd be able to get in touch with him."

"You don't understand," the child who was in pain said. Marissa could now tell that it was a boy, and, if she didn't know better, she would swear that the child's voice sounded like Joaquin's, but surely…of course…there was no possible way…right? "I don't want Theresa." She froze in place just outside the inner circle of adults, too frightened to peer over their shoulders at the wounded little boy. "I want my Mom," the child sobbed. "Please, get my Mom," he pleaded, the pain evident in his small, terrified voice.

Marissa watched as the other teachers looked at each other, their bewilderment written plainly on their anxious faces, and, when they turned to stare at each other in question, she was able to see over their shoulders towards the hurt eight year old laying immobile on the gravel of the playground with his arm clutched closely to his trembling chest.

He whimpered, the tears of agony rolling down his injury paled face, and she couldn't stand there any longer. The fear she felt for the child she loved with all her heart disappeared, and her instincts to protect those she cared for kicked in, making her act. Pushing her way through the crowd, Marissa knelt down beside the little boy, taking him in her arms, and immediately started to comfort him.

"Hey, I'm here, I'm here," she reassured her stepson, smoothing his tousled hair away from his brow before leaning down and pressing a sweet, motherly kiss against it, "and I'm not going anywhere." Lifting her face to look at her coworkers, she addressed them, the harshness of an irrationally angry parent perceptible in her tone. "What happened?"

"He fell off the monkey bars." This time it was Shawn Turner who spoke up. "And he must have landed awkwardly on his arm. I think it's broken." The greasy teacher paused momentarily to look at her, his inquisitiveness written plainly across his rather homely face. "Why does J seem to think that you're his Mom?"

"Because I am," she snapped, glaring at the fifth grade teacher. Carefully, she stood up, somehow maintaining to keep Joaquin in her arms. "You're going to have to find someone to watch over my class for the rest of the afternoon, because we're going to the hospital."

"You're not authorized to take him off school grounds," Mrs. Tate attempted to stop her. "We have to call Mr. Atwood and wait for him to either come and get J or give us permission to send him to the hospital in an ambulance."

"You can report me to the principle, you can hold an emergency board meeting and fill them in on my insubordination, hell, you can even try and take my teaching license away from me, but don't you dare think you're going to keep me away from my son. I am taking him to the hospital," Marissa declared, daring any one person to even attempt to stop her, "and there's nothing you can say or do about it."

"Well, it's definitely broken," the doctor announced after looking at the x-rays he had taken of J's arm, "but it's going to take a while before the swelling goes down enough for us to put it in a cast. Just stay in the room and relax for a few hours, and then I'll be back to check on you."

After the doctor had left the room, Marissa turned back to her stepson to find him already drifting off to sleep, the day's events catching up to the little boy and making him feel exhausted. She sat with him for several more minutes until she knew he was sound asleep, calmly, soothingly letting her thumb caress the lines of fear and stress from his eight year old brow. Standing up, she stretched everything from her neck and shoulders to her toes which were now encased in a pair of complimentary hospital slippers. The nurse who had helped them in the emergency room had laughed when she noticed the younger woman's bare feet, reassuring her that she had seen stranger things during her career.

Without waking J, she slipped from the hospital room, boarded the elevator, and made her way down to the entrance so that she could go outside and call Ryan. On their way to the hospital, she had called her husband, told him what had happened, and they had decided that he would wait to hear from them before leaving work. Once he was with her, Joaquin had calmed down enough that he said his Dad could stay at the country club, reassuring both of his parents that he would be fine. Although she didn't say anything at the time, Marissa suspected that her stepson wanted to appear tough and manly in his father's eyes, his male ego kicking in even at the tender age of eight. She thought the reaction was ridiculous but, at the same time, nothing boys did surprised her after twenty four years of life.

After dialing her husband's number, she stood just outside the hospital doors, impatiently tapping her foot as she waited for him to answer. Despite wanting to reassure Ryan that J was going to be alright, that he only had a broken arm that would heal in six to eight weeks and be, once again, just like new, she wanted to return to the little boy's bedside as quickly as she could. He had already been scared enough for one day; he didn't need to wake up without her by his side in a strange, unfamiliar place.

"How is he?"

Ryan's eager voice snapped her out of her silent revelry. "He's going to be fine," Marissa reassured him. "His arm is broken, but the doctor said it's a clean break and that it'll be like he never hurt it in a couple of months."

Wanting more information, her husband pressed, "did he have to get a cast put on it? Can I talk to him?"

"The doctor's waiting for the swelling to go down before casting it, so we'll be here for a few more hours. As for J, he's out cold up in his room. I snuck downstairs and came outside just long enough to call you and give you an update."

"So you're going to be there for a few more hours?"

"Yeah," the young teacher answered. "It'll probably be too late for either of us to cook dinner tonight, so I thought I'd call ahead and place an order with Margie at _Wired_. Besides, with the way news travel around this town, she'll probably already know that J was injured and want details."

"Alright, that sounds good," Ryan agreed with her. "I'll be there in a couple of hours as soon as I'm done for the day…unless you need me to come earlier."

"No, we'll be fine," she assured him. "Joaquin will, in all likelihood, still be asleep by the time you get here."

"Alright then," he agreed, "I'll see you soon. Love you."

"Love you, too," Marissa returned before flipping her phone shut.

As soon as their call ended, she made her way back into the hospital, passing by a sign with descriptions of each floor on it. For some reason, her eyes were automatically drawn to the fourth floor: obstetrics and maternity. Shaking her head to dispel of any thoughts pertaining to or related to babies, she climbed onto the awaiting elevator and watched as its doors closed. For some reason, her hand hesitated, and, before she could analyze her actions, she saw her own finger press the button for the fourth floor. Orthopedics and her stepson were not located there, but, perhaps, her future was.

Operating under instinct alone, she waited for the elevator to arrive at her chosen floor, stepped off the lift, and proceeded to walk towards the nurses' desk. Standing there, she waited several seconds before someone noticed her and asked if they could help.

"I know this is unconventional," Marissa started, suddenly embarrassed and fidgeting with her fingers below the edge of the desk where the nurse couldn't see them, "but I was wondering if there might be an opening available this afternoon."

"Are you pregnant? Do you think that there's something wrong with your baby?"

"No, I'm not expecting," she corrected the medical professional, "but I think I might want to be." Marissa waited for an answer, hope sparkling in her sapphire eyes, but the nurse only regarded her with confusion. "You see, I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to be a mother," she explained, "but I realized today that I can put a child before my own needs, that I can take care of a child selflessly, that, while I'm still scared of the idea of having a baby, I will be able to love a child the way it deserves to be loved, but, before I tell my husband, I want to make sure that I'm capable of having children…you know, get the all systems clear signal from a doctor."

Confusion was replaced with comprehension and then compassion on the older woman's face and then finally she replied. "Wait here," the nurse instructed her. "I'll be right back. I just need to go speak to one of the doctors, but, don't worry, no matter what, I'll get you an appointment."

And, just like that, Marissa Cooper Atwood was firmly on the path to becoming a mother…for the second time. That afternoon when her stepson had called out for her, begging for his mom and meaning her, she had experienced motherhood for the first time, and, because of that experience, he made her realize that she wanted to go through the joys of parenthood from start to finish with her husband, that she wanted to have a baby.

"Something's changed," Margie announced as soon as Marissa walked through the door late that evening. Denying the younger woman the food she had been holding out before she had looked upon her friend's face, she continued. "And you're not getting your dinner until you tell me exactly what happened."

"J broke his arm at recess today."

"Okay," the café owner drawled out, eyeing the blonde standing across the bar from her. "Where is my friend, Joan Crawford, and have you done to turn her into _Mommie Dearest_?"

Laughing, Marissa questioned, "what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you looking happy at the idea of your stepson breaking his arm. That's a little sick and twisted, if you ask me," the brunette declared, "so either there's more to the story or you've taken parental advice from the wrong Hollyweird starlet of the past."

"He called me his mom," the younger woman shared, smiling softly, smiling maternally. "And, when he was hurt and crying, he didn't call out for Ryan, he called out for me."

Margie relaxed her stance and returned her friend's grin. "That's wonderful, but I'm sensing there's more to this story than getting the final seal of approval from an eight year old little boy we both already knew was crazy about you because of the fact that you're practically glowing."

"You should have seen me," Marissa stated. "At first, granted, I was frozen in place, but, as soon as I realized that it was J who was hurt and that he wanted me to hold him, I was no longer scared of not being good enough for him. Sure, I was still afraid for him, afraid of how badly he was injured, but I knew that, no matter what, I had to take care of him to the best of my ability. I held him in my arms while he cried, I carried him to the car, and I sat by his beside and held his hand until he fell asleep."

Interrupting her, the older woman inquired, "but you left him once he was zonked out?" The disapproval was evident in her tone.

"Only temporarily, to call Ryan," the teacher responded, "but then I was on my way back up to orthopedics when I saw the words obstetrics and maternity and, before I realized what I was doing, I was there getting an exam."

"An OBG-YN exam?" Marissa nodded, making the café owner gape at her. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I know that Ryan came to you the night we had our…disagreement about having a baby together," the blonde acknowledged, "so I don't have to go into too much detail, but what I can tell you is that as soon as I heard Joaquin call me his mom, as soon as he showed me how much he trusted my love for him, all my fears about motherhood really seemed trivial. My own mother never was able to calm me down when I was upset, but I did that just by holding that little boy in my arms and offering him a few words of reassurance. There's nothing like the feeling of knowing a child has faith in you to take care of them."

"I've had that experience," Margie shared. "The very first time I held Sarah and looked into her eyes, I realized that even though I was responsible for her becoming a functioning part of society, in that moment, I was no longer scared of turning her into a female version of Charles Manson or the next Zsa Zsa Gabor."

"There's definitely no one like you for telling an uplifting story," the blonde teased her best friend, laughing. "But does what I'm saying make sense?"

"Of course it does," the older woman guaranteed her. "People can tell you something until they're blue in the face, but you're not going to believe them until you see proof of it for yourself. Today, you saw your proof." Quirking her eyebrows at her friend, the mother of three asked, "have you told Ryan about this revelation yet?"

"No," Marissa shared, despite herself blushing. "I'm waiting until later, when we're alone. After the day we've both had, he'll need some good news."

"Plus, he'll probably want to start practicing if not actually trying for real tonight, and having a needy, eight year old kid around with a broken arm would probably crimp his style."

The younger woman simply rolled her eyes, not even dignifying the brunette's statement with a verbal response even though they both knew Margie was right. "So, really quickly before I leave, do you have any advice for me?"

"Missionary," the café owner stated confidently. "I know it's nothing exciting, but you don't have to go experimental to conceive a baby. If I remember correctly and sex is definitely something one should remember, Rob and I conceived all three of our kids using the missionary position."

"Ugh," the blonde groaned, reaching up to cover her ears and wincing. "That was something I never needed to know."

"Well, you asked for advice."

"What I meant was advice on being a mother, not sex advice, Doctor Ruth."

"You know," Margie mused to herself, "that randy pervert is pretty senile. She's bound to kick the bucket soon, and it would be a pretty fun job to take over. Maybe I should submit my application now for replacing her."

"Oddly enough, I think your creepy quota might be on par with Dr. Ruth's, and you'd be able to fill her tiny, deficient sized, tan, old lady pumps."

"The job would look good on my resume," the older woman decided. "I'll look into it, but, for now, I still need to give you some advice. From one mother to another, really there are only three things you need to remember. One, love your children as much as you possible can. That's truly all they need and want from you. Two, spend as much time with them as possible, because, before you know it, they're all grown up and ready to become parents themselves, and, three, make sure you always have a clean diaper immediately handy when changing a little boy. It'll save you many loads of laundry and a lot of embarrassment."

Confused, Marissa questioned her, "what?"

"Just trust me. You'll thank me later."

"Alright then," the younger woman returned, eyeing her friend carefully. "I should probably get going though, so do you want to," she motioned towards the bag of food the mother of three was still holding out of her grasp.

"Oh, yeah," Margie realized, handing over the dinner. "And don't you dare try to pay me for that. Family help each other out on days like you had today. Just tell J we're all thinking about him and that we'll be by sometime this weekend to sign his cast and tell horror stories about how bad skin smells after a cast is removed."

"He'll be looking forward to it, I'm sure."

"I'm going to want details about this evening, too," the brunette warned her blonde counterpart. "Lots and lots and lots of sappy, romantic, carnal details!"

The only response she received was the front door of the café slamming shut, but she wasn't worried. She'd get the information she wanted…one way or another.

It was six and half months later, and everything was different. As August whirled in, the Atwood family, currently weighing in at three and half members of the human variety and four of the animal, was preparing to leave Southern California for another sunny clime – that of Southern Florida. After the truth had come out about their relationship, Ryan and Marissa had faced numerous, affronting assaults from their neighbors and the parents of J's fellow classmates, and, although the school board and her bosses could legally do nothing to strip her of her job due to the teachers' union she belonged to, they still made her life while at Chino Elementary a living hell. Things had only gotten worse when they had announced that they were expecting.

Margie's prediction that Ryan would want to immediately start for a child once Marissa told him her good news had proved to be true, and, just like everything else they had done together in their relationship, things had gone quickly, and they were practically pregnant before they even tried. Not only did the proud parents have to face the wrath of the other townspeople, but, as soon as the Coopers had learned of the news, Julie had been harassing them day and night, insisting that they move to Newport so she could be closer to her heir. How else would she be able to groom him or her into the heartless mogul she longed for? So, wanting a fresh start in a town where no one would know their past and where they could be far away from Julie, as soon as the school year had ended, Ryan and Marissa had both started looking for new jobs. She had found one first seeing as how teachers were always needed in urban areas, and, soon afterwards, Ryan he had been hired at a prestigious golf course where not only would he manage the grounds but he would also have say in the future changes and improvements brought to the course.

As they walked into _Wired_ that afternoon on their last day in Chino for the baby shower Margie was throwing in their and their still unborn baby girl, Lourdes' honor, a content Ryan, a six months pregnant Marissa, and a recently turned nine year old Joaquin all had smiles upon their tanned and happy faces.

"So I got a call from this firebrand here about three months ago," a very familiar voice, a voice the three of them had never thought they would hear again, was explaining as they made their way inside out of the sun and into the air conditioned interior of the café/bar, "and she had the most wonderful idea. She wanted us to go into business together, she as the silent partner and me as the figurehead or mouth, so to speak, go figure. Anyway, her plan was to extend _Wired_ and make it a chain. While she and the headquarters would remain here in Southern California, I would be running its offshoot _Wired, Too_ in Palm Beach. Now that was a deal my second-in-command and I couldn't pass up without having our heads shrunk by a shrink, so we signed on the pink dotted line and started planning. In just a few short weeks, _Wired, Too_ will be up and running, catering towards a more…. unique audience. We'll have a special menu designed by yours truly, anything and everything graphic novel related, and sailing excursions for our more high-rolling clientele. The best part is though that none of this would have been possible without our guests of honor. It's because of our mutual friends that Margie and I met in the first place, and now look at us, we're in bed together as partners in business and crime, not to mention compadres as well." The memorable man paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "And, now that I've finished with my speech, I'd like to read the one my mini-me prepared for today's announcement as well."

Marissa could see that her husband was about to explode, and she had to stifle a small laugh at his red face and indignant expression. Their baby shower was about to become truly unforgettable. "What the hell is going on around here," he practically screamed.

"Ryan," the geeky, brown haired man called out in greeting, "you didn't forget your buddies Seth and Chester did you? I mean, how could you? I was practically your best man at your wedding to your lovely and yet slightly swollen wife. Forget about carrying a watermelon to a party; Mrs. Atwood over there went and swallowed the whole thing. Baby would be embarrassed for you. However, I guess that means there will be more pudding for the rest of us to eat, right?"

"Margie," Ryan began turning towards his older friend and glaring. "What the hell have you done?"

"Oh, nothing much," the mother of three evaded his question before smirking triumphantly to herself. "This is just something I like to call Peggy's Plan for Payback."


End file.
